


Star to Star

by virdant



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Choices, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Humor, Personal Growth, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25687798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: Retired pop idol Jango Fett is living in obscurity on Concord Dawn when he learns that clones of himself are touring the galaxy—wearing his face and singing with his voice—without his permission. As he joins the 212th and their manager Obi-Wan Kenobi to find the perpetrator behind this, Jango must contend with the past that forced him to retire, and the legacy he is leaving behind.
Relationships: Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 146
Kudos: 161





	1. Mandalore

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you join a fandom and write a ghost marriage and people like it so much you realize that to convince people that actually you like boybands, not ghosts, you spend 5 days writing a 23k boyband AU. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Jokes aside, this is less crack and more serious than a boyband AU may suggest. This story is complete and will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays. It has 10 chapters, so at a posting schedule of 2x a week, it'll be all up in 5 weeks time. Feel free to join for the ride, or wait it out and binge it in one go! Either way, enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to alanna, who is always lovely and encouraging on my twitter, and ellie, who is the most patient with me.
> 
> This story is set in a galaxy far far away where there is no Force. There is much less war, and much more boyband.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango discovers somebody has cloned him to make a boyband, and meets manager of the 212th, Obi-Wan Kenobi, to come up with a plan to solve the problem. It’s a good thing that Kenobi is pretty, since the plan is not.

Jango Fett had a brief but illustrious career before Galidraan. Everybody knew that to be a successful pop idol there was training, and there was natural talent; Jango had both in spades. He would have topped the Galactic charts for years, his voice would have spread throughout the Galaxy, everybody would have known his name.

And then Galidraan happened, and Jango Fett disappeared from the public eye. Retired. Disappeared. His songs were consigned to memorabilia, his few drama roles circulated among the few true fans. 

Then his face showed up on the holoscreen.

His face showed up, multiplied half-a-dozen times over.

* * *

Jango stared at the screen for a whole ten-minutes after the broadcast ended and switched back to boring news about the latest election. He didn’t like looking at his own face in general, his old performances never failing to make him grimace. But this? This was worse. It was his face, and his voice, and they moved the way he had been taught. But they weren’t him—he’d never sung any Republic propaganda like the shit coming out of their mouth, with their praises of authority, and there were also five of them, all with his face.

With his _face_.

Jango Fett, who had once been primed to take over the galaxy through the power of song and dance, did not move for the longest time. He stared at the holoscreen and was perfectly still. The song and dance ended, the group of men who had his face was declared as the 212th, tickets on sale now, and _they had his face_.

Jango had his comm in hand and was calling Jaster the second he could move.

“They have my _face_ ,” Jango hissed.

Jaster, who had always been more than his manager to him—more like a father—didn’t have to ask what Jango was talking about. “You’ve noticed,” Jaster sighed.

“Why do they have my face?” And his voice. And his grace.

His face, decades younger.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out. You didn’t father a half-dozen identical sons, did you?”

Jango snorted. “When I was what, 15?” He hadn’t spent more than ten minutes unsupervised when he was that age.

The call was brief. Jaster didn’t know any more than Jango did. Just that there was a group wearing Jango’s face, singing with Jango’s voice. If it was the face, that would be one thing—there was plastic surgery, after all. But his voice, that was harder to replicate. And his grace, the ease with which he had always danced and learned choreography—that was even harder.

Jango hadn’t left Concord Dawn since the Galidraan scandal, and he’d never had any intention of doing so. He’d settled into obscurity with his sister Arla, and he had been fine with it.

But this was his face, his voice, being used for Republic propaganda.

Jango Fett had once been primed to take over the galaxy through song and dance, and somebody had made five identical clones of him to do the same.

And that, Jango knew, he was not fine with.

* * *

Jaster didn’t manage talents anymore, years after Galidraan, but he still had the connections he’d had in the past. Jaster put Jango in contact with Satine Kryze, who was managing a few talents but did not know anything about clones of Jango Fett. She did, however, know the man who was now in charge of said clones.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Satine Kryze offered, when Jango called. “But I don’t know how much help he’ll be.”

“He’s managing _clones_ of me.”

Satine offered him a sympathetic look. “He doesn’t know where they came from either.”

This much knowledge was suspicious. “How do you know?”

“We talk.”

“He’s letting them sing Republic propaganda using my voice.”

Satine had a blank expression, which Jango recognized from meetings with executives. It was an expression that maintained a polite fiction. He wondered if anything coming out of Satine Kryze’s mouth was true. “He doesn’t have much choice.” 

“Well, we’ll find out,” Jango said, and got Obi-Wan Kenobi’s contact information out of Satine to give him a call.

Kenobi picked up pretty quickly, which was surprising given that Jango knew how many junk calls he got, with his now-relatively anonymous life. He couldn’t imagine how many Kenobi got, given that he was managing a boyband made of his clones. “Hello?” Kenobi asked, all Coruscanti accent. He had a face that could grace holodramas, if he wanted to. Clearly he hadn’t gone that route, given that he was frowning at the screen, suspicious.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Jango said, “I hope I look familiar.”

Kenobi, to his credit, did not mistake him for one of his clones. Kenobi frowned politely at him, and then said, “Jango Fett?” in tones of utter bewilderment.

“Glad your eyes work.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“For answers.”

Kenobi leaned back in his chair. He was in what looked like an room in Coruscant, given the skyscape in the background. “I presume this is about the 212th.”

Jango nodded, tightly, in response.

“This really isn’t a conversation to be had over comms.” Kenobi tapped at something off-screen. “The 212th will be in the Mandalore sector in a week, touring. Would you be able to meet up?”

“What makes you think I’m in the Mandalore sector?”

“Unless you’ve moved recently, Jango Fett retired to Concord Dawn.” Kenobi’s voice was calm and confident—he had good connections, if he knew that. Jaster certainly hadn’t advertised where Jango had retired to. 

“I can meet up,” Jango said.

“Good. I’ll send you my contact information.” A pause, and then Kenobi said, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Jango stared at the comm as the connection stopped. That was ominous.

* * *

Kenobi had even more of a holodrama face in-person, which was unfair. People with holodrama faces should have the decency to stay in holodramas, not become managers of boybands made up of Jango’s genetic material.

“We really didn’t know,” Kenobi said, after they’d gotten caff—well, Jango got caff, Kenobi got tea—and they had settled into their seats. Satine Kryze had offered a meeting room in her offices in Keldabe, and Kenobi had taken her up on it. Jango wondered, not for the first time, just exactly how Kryze and Kenobi knew each other. “Nobody could say if you’d agreed to it or not.”

“So you just decided to put together a boyband and tour?” Jango couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice, and he didn’t bother to.

“No.” Kenobi sounded very tired. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Apparently, cloners on Kamino had gotten ahold of his genetic material as well as a contract to clone him. Clone him many times. According to the contract, it was to create a series of idol groups to spread joy and cheer throughout the galaxy. 

“And make lots of money,” Kenobi added, under his breath.

The contract had been very specific. The clones had to fulfill at least a decade of service or earn enough to pay back cloning costs before they were free, and if not, they would be decommissioned.

“We couldn’t let that happen,” Kenobi said. “They’re _sentient_.”

And if the Jedi, NGO that they were, didn’t take charge, then the clones would be signed to slave contracts, forced to work inhumane hours, kept working long after they’d fulfilled the terms of their contract, since the contract made it very clear that the _clones_ had to pay the cloning costs, not whoever was reaping the benefits from the clone’s labor.

Kenobi had taken charge of the 212th, but there were plenty more groups put together, all under the management of a Jedi, being sent out across the galaxy to sing and dance. There was a group that would remain on Coruscant, already assigned a theatre where they’d perform every day for the masses. 

“And that’s where we are now.” Kenobi spread his hands out, with a sigh. His tea had gone cold.

“I didn’t give permission to get cloned,” Jango said.

“I thought that might be the case.”

“I can sue,” Jango offered.

“I would recommend against that option,” Kenobi grimaced. “It’s very likely that all of the clones would be—” another wince, “—decommissioned.”

Jango leaned back and studied Kenobi. “You’re saying there’s hundreds of people wearing my face and using my voice across the galaxy, and I shouldn’t do anything?”

“No.” Kenobi leaned forward. “I think we need to find the source.”

* * *

The source, according to Kenobi, was the person who had gotten ahold of Jango’s genetic material in the first place.

“They didn’t need a lot,” Kenobi said. “But they would have needed enough that a few hairs wouldn’t have been enough. That means that somebody had to get a good amount of genetic material from you.”

Secondly, they needed to find out said source’s motivation.

“There weren’t any provisions for who the clones had to go to. If the goal was just to earn money, then why weren’t they given directly to the person who set this up? Why let the Jedi take over management?”

Thirdly, they had to protect the clones. “I won’t let you hurt them,” Kenobi said, flatly. “For all that they look like adults, they’re children, and I’m responsible for them.”

“And how do you plan on doing all of this?” Jango demanded.

“Well,” and Kenobi grinned, which was unfairly handsome, given that he was managing a boyband, not playing a role for a holodrama, “I am travelling the galaxy while managing a boyband.”

Jango raised a brow. “You’re going to investigate while managing a concert tour.”

Kenobi grinned.

“And how are you going to figure out who’s involved?”

“The more successful the 212th is,” Kenobi said, “The faster they get out of their contract. And whoever set this up can’t let that happen, not if they want something.”

“So you’re going to manage them to renown to get this source to expose himself.”

“As far as plans go, it’s not terrible.”

It was a pretty terrible plan. The worst part was Jango actually believed Kenobi could pull it off. And he wasn’t going to let him do it alone. He sighed. “You’ll need some help.”

“Volunteering, my dear?”

Jango smirked back.

* * *

Once, Jango Fett had been the most talked-about name in the Mandalore sector. He’d been well on his way to conquering the galaxy through song and dance. He had the voice. He had the skills. He could sing and dance and his few roles in local holodramas were getting lauded.

He’d stopped, but he still remembered what it was like. And he knew how to catch an eye, how to perform.

If Kenobi wanted a group with his face and his voice to make it across the galaxy, then he knew how to achieve it.


	2. Serreno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango and Obi-Wan Kenobi begin to put their plan in action, but first they need allies and resources. That means contacting Count Dooku, who pushed Jango into retirement in the first place.

It took remarkably little time to get his affairs in order and join Kenobi and his group. Kenobi handed him his contact information, told him to find them whenever, and then disappeared to do whatever boyband managers did in their free time. Probably managerial things. 

Jango called Jaster.

“You’re doing what?” Jaster demanded, sounding very confused.

“I’m joining Kenobi and the 212th to make them galaxy-famous.”

Jaster did not point out that a few days ago, Jango was infuriated at the fact that there were clones of him performing songs across the galaxy. His silence said enough.

“It’s the best way to uncover who organized this plot,” Jango added, only a little defensively.

“Right,” Jaster agreed. It sounded more indulgent than honest, but Jango didn’t point that out. “So why are you calling me? Just to tell me your latest scheme?”

Jango had been practically conditioned to telling Jaster his every move from his brief time as a very popular pop idol. He hadn’t given his call to Jaster much more thought than that.

“Oh,” Jaster said in realization. “Jango, you’re a grown man who hasn’t been under my management for decades.”

“I know,” Jango growled.

“You really don’t have to call me to tell me you’re going off with a cute boy.”

“That’s not what I’m doing!”

“You’re allowed to date, now,” Jaster continued, clearly too amused at the turn of events. “You don’t even have to worry about tabloids, since you’ve been so far out of the public eye for so long that it’s doubtful anybody cares.”

Jango fumed.

Jaster’s voice turned serious. “Well, you might have to worry, since there are apparently hundreds of boyband members wearing your face. Don’t want to get them caught in a scandal.”

Jango hung up.

Jaster called back, a few minutes later—probably after he’d laughed himself sick—to say, “I give you my blessing to go off with Kenobi, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not why I called you for.”

“Uh huh.” Jaster paused. “By the way, you should ask Kenobi about Dooku.”

Jango paused. Dooku brought up uncomfortable memories of the career-ending Galidraan scandal. “What does Kenobi have to do with Dooku?”

“You really should ask him yourself.”

Jango hung up again.

* * *

Kenobi smiled when Jango showed up, bags in tow. It was even more of a holodrama smile than any of his other looks, and Jango took a few moments to contemplate how utterly unfair the world was, that Kenobi could look like that.

“I should introduce you to the boys,” Kenobi offered. “Especially if you’re going to be working with them.”

Jango made a vaguely affirmational noise in agreement.

His clones were taller than him, which was just unfair. _They_ probably didn’t have to wear lifts in their shoes to make themselves taller. He could already hear Jaster pointing out that he should have eaten more vegetables as a child, since clearly his genes were capable of greater height than they’d expressed in him. 

Despite having the same genetic background, there were minor differences in appearance between him and the clones, and even the clones themselves—and not just in height. Jango couldn’t quite put a finger on what that meant, but he tucked it into the back of his head for future thought. Nonetheless, the clones had taken it differences in appearances to another level with tattoos and haircuts.

The 212th was made of five clones—the ideal boyband number, according to Kenobi. Cody was their leader. Waxer, Boil, Wooley, and Longshot made up the rest of the group. Jango barely had time to raise an eyebrow at their names before Kenobi was pulling him aside to brief him on their plan.

“I thought the plan was to get the 212th famous so you can figure out who commissioned these clones and I can figure out who stole my genetic material.”

“Well, yes.” Kenobi looked a little sheepish. “That’s the broad strokes of it. But I figured you’d appreciate having more knowledge than just blindly flying from one star-system to another watching clones of yourself perform.”

He would appreciate it, but it seemed odd that it was coming up now, instead of when they had first started discussing the plan.

Kenobi looked cagey. “You see, money can buy success, a lot of the time.” Advertisements. More airtime. Better writers and producers. Money could buy a lot of things. “The Jedi don’t have a lot of money. But I know somebody who does.”

“Dooku,” Jango guessed.

“Yes. Wait.” Kenobi stared. “How do you know?”

“You didn’t want to mention it,” Jango pointed out. And Dooku and Galidraan was the biggest scandal in his history. Not to mention Dooku’s connections to the Jedi. And Jaster’s earlier ominous words. “So we’re going to go talk to Dooku?”

“I could go talk to him myself,” Kenobi said, very politely.

Jango smirked back. “Is this so I don’t punch him in the face?”

“It’d be appreciated if you didn’t punch our potential benefactor in the face, yes,” he said primly.

“What will you give me if I don’t?”

He blinked, flummoxed. “What?”

Dooku had essentially ended Jango’s career. Punching him in the face was the least he could do in return.

Kenobi recovered admirably. “I really don’t have anything to offer you, other than to help you figure out who’s behind this.” He pushed his hair back with a hand. His fringe was long enough to fall into his eyes. Jaster had tried to get Jango to cut his hair in that exact style when he was still popular. Kenobi pulled it off obnoxiously well. 

“Think about it,” Jango suggested. “Now what’s this about Dooku?”

* * *

Jango, for all of his skills, had been an angry teenager. Jaster had tried to direct that anger towards more productive pursuits, such as signing him up for dance rehearsals until all he could do was collapse in exhaustion.

But Jaster hadn’t been around all the time.

Jango had taken to underground fight clubs. It was absolutely incongruous with his pop idol image, and if he ever got caught, his career would go down the drain. It meant that he had to make sure he never got hit in the face—because his face was the most important part of his career—and also that nobody ever knew that it was him, pop idol Jango Fett, in a mostly illegal underground fight club, beating people to near-death.

He got caught at Galidraan.

Dooku caught him.

It would have been better if it had been a sex scandal, Jaster had told him, when his career had been washing down the drain. They could have dealt with that. It would have been better if somebody else had caught him. They could have paid them off to keep their silence.

Dooku had _plans_ , and he hadn’t minded dragging Jango down for them.

Jango had never managed to forgive Dooku, for all that Jango had never seen any indication of his plans coming to fruition. 

Dooku was on Serenno now, Obi-Wan said. The 212th would swing by in a few weeks. “He’ll talk to me,” Obi-Wan insisted. “And he has connections that we can use.”

Jango knew that Dooku had connections, considering he’d leveraged them to ruin his career. “What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”

Obi-Wan sighed, with all the flair of a holoactor. “He will.”

* * *

“Master Kenobi,” Dooku said, only sparing Jango the briefest glance. He probably thought that Jango was one of Kenobi’s 212th, for all that Jango was at least two decades older than them. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Master Dooku,” Kenobi replied, just as amiably. “Absolutely not.”

“Pity.”

Kenobi leaned back in his seat. Dooku had invited them to latemeal. Jango had expected some sort of formal business meeting in Count Dooku’s estate, something quick and stuffy. He had not expected an elegant meal in one of the fanciest restaurants in Serenno, just the three of them in an intimate table with plenty of privacy. Obi-Wan seemed to have expected it, given that he had rolled his eyes when Dooku sent him the meeting location, pulled out a very nice suit, and said, “Not again.”

Jango had sat through four courses with Dooku and Obi-Wan making polite noises about the quality of the food, the décor, the weather. It wasn’t until the latest course had been cleared away and more wine poured that the air changed, becoming charged. It was as if by some unspoken cue the two of them had suddenly decided to talk business.

Dooku took a sip of his wine. “If you aren’t here to accept my proposition, then you have something you want from me.” His eyes narrowed. “Asking for favors now?”

“More like calling in favors.”

Dooku sighed. “Your talent is wasted managing those boys.”

Kenobi threw Jango a commiserating glance. After a pause, he said, “I will… consider… your previous proposition.”

“Oh?”

“But I can hardly leave my men when they need me. But after this is all resolved, perhaps…”

Dooku’s eyes sharpened in interest. “Yes, you always did take responsibility. Very well, I shall assist you in this endeavor.”

Kenobi stared steadily back. He didn’t finish his sentence.

Jango raised a brow at Kenobi.

“And who is this associate that you brought to meet me, Master Kenobi? One of your men in an attempt to pique my sympathy?”

“Hardly.” Kenobi smirked. It made him look remarkably like Dooku. “This is Jango Fett.”

Dooku looked surprised. “Jango Fett,” he said, softly, wonderingly. “You brought me Jango Fett.”

“We’re looking into the situation together.”

“I see.” Dooku leaned back. He swirled his wine. It should have looked ominous. Jango had spent a long time hating Dooku for ruining his career. Unsurprisingly, Dooku dismissed Jango in favor of turning back to Kenobi. “And what do you wish to know, Master Kenobi?”

Jango was a little surprised Kenobi didn’t pull out a datapad of his questions. Instead, he picked up his own wine, swirled it in an exact copy of Dooku’s movements, and sipped. “Who commissioned the clones?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“I think you can find out. After all, you can’t have somebody making clones of Jango Fett if you really want me. Not after you went through all that trouble.”

Dooku looked very pleased. “I can look into it, certainly,” he agreed. “I suppose you also want to get back all of Jango Fett’s genetic material, so it can’t happen again.”

“That would be nice,” Kenobi agreed.

“That would be much more difficult.” Dooku said, “You do understand that in your misdirected youth, Mr. Fett, that you shed quite a large amount of blood.”

Jango blinked slowly back. Galidraan was on the tip of both of their tongues.

“Any number of unsavory individuals could have acquired it.”

“Like yourself?” Jango retorted.

Dooku sighed. To Kenobi, he said, “I will look into this for you, Master Kenobi.”

“Thank you, Master Dooku, I will send you the details later,” Kenobi said, with perfectly polite tones. “It’s very appreciated.”

“Now then.” He gestured. “Dessert? I took the liberty of ordering your favorite, Master Kenobi.”

Kenobi smiled back, a holoactor’s smile. “You’re too kind, Master Dooku.”

* * *

“What’s this about joining Dooku?”

Kenobi looked very beleaguered. He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s old business. I’m not actually going to join him, and he knows that. But he’ll keep trying. He’s persistent like that.”

“If he knows you aren’t joining him, will he even get you the information you want?”

“Probably. He always puts a lot of effort into his seductions.”

Jango choked. Dooku was old enough to be Obi-Wan Kenobi’s grandfather.

Kenobi flushed. “Not like that!” He was hasty. “I meant his seductions to get me to join his business ventures. Not—” He shook his head. The tips of his ears were still red. “He’s not interested in me like _that_.”

Kenobi was very attractive.

“He practically _raised_ me,” he continued.

Jango blinked. “Dooku raised you?” 

“Well, no.” Kenobi looked a little uncomfortable. “But he was very involved. He was my foster father Qui-Gon’s mentor.”

“That’s why you knew you could get him to talk.”

“We had a falling out, and it’s only gotten worse since Qui-Gon died, but he’s very determined to make amends.” Another pause. “Of a sort.”

“By getting you to join him on his business ventures.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re confident that he’ll pull through.”

“Yes.”

“So when will we hear back from him?”

Kenobi looked grimly amused. “When it suits him, of course. Which is why we’re going to continue with Plan A.”

“Galaxy domination through song?”

Kenobi grinned. “Galaxy domination through song and dance.”

* * *

Jango had, at one point, been top of the pop charts. He didn’t sing and dance anymore, but he still _remembered_ how to do it.

His clones were him, but not quite. They hadn’t had the same upbringing—their training had been rigorous, but Jango had gotten his start singing nursery rhymes with Arla, and while the clones had his same unerring sense of pitch, they didn’t make up words the way Jango had when he was bored. They danced with precision, but without the same viciousness that Jango sometimes had, when he was a teenager and hadn’t had enough time to release his aggression.

They were like him, but they weren’t.

Kenobi ran a hand over his beard as Jango whipped them into shape.

Jango’s training had involved dance rehearsals until all he could do was fall over in an attempt to keep him out of trouble. These boys weren’t nearly as inclined to get into trouble, but Jango put them through their paces. Ballet for fundamentals, hip-hop for the sharp moves that pop music called for, jazz and lyrical to give them the well-rounded foundation that had given Jango his easy grace.

The boys all handled it well. But then again, they were Jango’s clones. He could see why Cody had been made their leader though. He had an edge to him that reminded Jango of himself, back when he was younger.

Kenobi said, “If that’s what your training was like, I can see how you pulled off the moves you did.” He’d watched the entire day of rehearsal, a thermos of tea in one hand and a datapad in the other. It had been long sessions of dance classes and practice sessions with only brief breaks. Jango was surprised Kenobi hadn’t gotten bored and gone off to do managerial things.

Jango had a sheen of sweat over his skin. He’d kept dancing even after his forced retirement, but after a full day of teaching and coaching, he was exhausted. It had been easier and harder to remember how his muscles worked. “Didn’t realize you knew me when I was still performing.”

Kenobi’s ears turned red. The rest of his face was completely amiable. It was fascinating to watch. “Oh, I did my research. It was good to watch for inspiration when I still danced.”

“You dance?”

“I used to.” Kenobi seemed uncomfortable, for all that his face remained genial. “Not anymore.”

Jango was tempted to push. Instead, he said, “We should make the boys sing while running laps.”

“To build stamina,” Kenobi agreed. “They’ve been doing that already. I do remember.”

“Hm.” Jango wiped sweat from the back of his neck. 

“Are you going to coach them through vocal training as well?”

Jango had always had perfect pitch. The 212th had it as well. They didn’t need him to learn how to sing on-tune. “I was always more of a dancer.”

“You had a good voice. You used it well. The boys could learn from you.”

“If you insist.”

“They gave them vocal and dance lessons on Kamino,” Kenobi said. “But you have experience that they’ll benefit from.”

“If you insist,” Jango said again.

Kenobi said, softly, “Then I insist.”

* * *

He’d loved performing when he was younger.

Singing and dancing had been everything to him. Jaster had seen that, taken him under his wing, honed his talent. 

Jango stood in the doorway of the dance studio. It was late already, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d taken to wandering the halls of the ship, and a part of him had thought about standing in the studio full of mirrors and letting go until his muscles were exhausted in the same way that Jaster had pushed him to.

But the dance studio was already occupied.

Kenobi’s eyes were closed, but he moved with a fluid grace. His face showed nothing but meditative peace as he danced.

Jango knew that dance. Knew it in the depths of his muscle memory. He’d never been able to forget the movements. They’d drilled it into him as a child. He’d performed it hundreds, thousands of times.

There was a quiet humming sound—Kenobi, singing under his breath—and the melody was familiar as well.

Jango stood in the doorway and stared. Kenobi didn’t see him, not with his eyes closed, not with his focus on the performance. It was like looking into a mirror.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, alone, performing Jango’s debut single entirely from memory.


	3. Hyperspace I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Names have power. Jango and Obi-Wan Kenobi contemplate the boyband they're in charge of, and try to unravel more plot. As they prepare the 212th to take over the galaxy, Jango finds himself more and more curious about Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“The identical faces are the point,” Kenobi said, thoughtfully. “The identical faces, the identical voices—that’s the point of the whole affair.”

Jango leaned back in his chair.

Kenobi had his own room in the ship they were taking around the galaxy. Jango had gotten into the habit of holding their meetings here, in Kenobi’s room, instead of in any of the more public locations.

“The galaxy is a large place. And now we have hundreds of groups that are all the same. A chance to see a live performance without any struggle.”

Individuality was not something to be aspired to, in this situation.

Jango was familiar with this. Jaster had spent hours twisting him into the right palatable shape for the galaxy. Stand like this. Dress like this. Cut your hair like this. He’d been willing to do it, for the chance to sing and dance. But it had been his choice.

None of these boys had a choice.

“Did Dooku tell you that?”

Kenobi’s mouth twisted, wryly. “It’s far too soon for Dooku to let anything slip to me. He’ll wait in hopes that I give in first and go to him and ask.”

“Interesting relationship you two have.”

Kenobi laughed under his breath. “You have no idea. Still, he’s agreed to pay for advertising and Arena rentals for us.”

“So, what brought this identical faces thought on?”

He didn’t mention Kenobi dancing in the studio alone. He wasn’t sure how he could bring it up without sounding strange. So what if Kenobi knew his debut single? So what if Kenobi knew how to sing and dance? What mattered was figuring out who was behind this whole thing.

“Why go into all of the effort to make boybands when there are dozens of aspiring pop idols throughout the galaxy? Why make clones of you?”

Jango crossed his arms and waited.

“But what if the point was to create identical groups. Identical pop idols. You build local connections with fans, because the idol travels to _them_. And it’s easy to reach even the Outer Rim, because they’re all supposed to be the same.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to mention that for all that the 212th was currently comprised of 5 members, there were dozens more waiting in the wings as backup if any one of them got injured. Identical faces to replace them. Replaceable bodies.

“But they aren’t the same,” Jango pointed out.

A few days of practice had made that clear. For all that they shared an identical genetic makeup, the same set of genes had expressed itself differently a plethora of minute ways. Waxer and Boil got along particularly well, to Cody’s bafflement and Wooley’s amusement. Longshot seemed to prefer being by himself, most of the time. Identical faces, twisting themselves into subtly different expressions.

“No,” Kenobi agreed. “They aren’t.”

They weren’t the same as Jango. They weren’t even the same as each other, despite their almost identical upbringing. For all that they had been given an almost identical training environment, these men were different people. 

Perhaps whoever had commissioned the clones had thought they were making a blank slate that they could impose their will on. Make idols of their design. They picked the face they wanted, after all. Maybe they had thought they would get docile creatures with Jango’s face and Jango’s voice.

But instead, they had gotten hundreds of men who were just a bit different.

“Were the differences part of their plan?” Kenobi mused. “Or is it out of their control?”

* * *

“Again.”

The clones groaned—loudly enough that Jango could hear, but not too loudly that it sounded too much like a complaint. They’d already learned that complaints didn’t get them anywhere. Jango used to train until he thought he’d collapse. It was the only way he knew how to train.

Kenobi watched, as he always did, a mug of tea in his hand, a datapad in the other. 

They settled into formation, ran the routine again. They were travelling to Yavin and its moons to perform, and Jango had a limited amount of time to whip them into shape. Not that they weren’t good when Jango got ahold of them, but they were only getting better. Their movements sharper, their voices stronger. They learned as fast as Jango had, if not faster. It was magnetizing to watch. There was no reason to think that Kenobi’s insane Plan A couldn’t work, if success would really drive the perpetrator out of the woodwork. Well, no reason if they had better songs than Republic propaganda to sing. But that was what they had been given, wholesome songs about listening to authority, and the Jedi weren’t likely to demand different ones, limited budget that they had. Dooku’s financial support only went so far.

Making them run the routine again would just be nitpicking, at this point. They would be able to perform their entire concert set list without any issues, if they kept this up. He dismissed them and went to Kenobi.

Kenobi smiled, briefly, as Jango approached. “They’re good. They were good when we started, but you’re making them better.”

“I make them dance until they collapse,” Jango replied, skeptically.

“Gives them drive. Everybody always needs something to work towards. Cody especially likes having a challenge.” He looked a little distant, before he focused on Jango again. He said, “Are you done for the day?”

“Why?”

“Oh. I thought you’d like to be around while I track down another lead and see what we can find.”

“Not satisfied with Plan A?”

Kenobi grinned back. “I don’t think you’d be fine with just touring around waiting to make it big.”

“You’d be right about that.” Jango studied Kenobi. He seemed reserved and quiet, dressed in neatly pressed clothes with tea in one hand and a datapad in the other. Like an accountant who’d ended up managing a boyband. Not like the lone figure dancing in an empty studio that he’d seen that night. “So what connections do you have?”

“Well, you know Satine already.”

Jango said, “I’m surprised you know her.” Satine had been a minor modeling sensation in the Mandalore sector when she was younger. It had been a surprise when, at the peak of her career, she announced her retirement and instead joined Kryze Entertainment as VP. A few years later and she was already CEO. But, for all of her renown in Mandalore, Jango wouldn’t have expected her to be on a first-name basis with Obi-Wan Kenobi of the Jedi.

“We worked together, when I was younger.” Kenobi didn’t sound bothered.

“You seem pretty young right now.” Kenobi couldn’t be older than 30, even with that beard.

Kenobi laughed. He rubbed at his beard. “How old do you think I am?”

Jango told him.

“No.” Kenobi laughed again. “Oh, no. I’m 35. I knew Satine when I was a teenager. It must be just over twenty years ago, now.”

Twenty years ago, Jango’s career had been buried for years, and Satine Kryze’s star was on the rise. “What were you doing with Kryze twenty years ago?” He couldn’t have been working as a manager already, when he was in his teens. 

“Oh, some project that never panned out.” He sounded casual about the whole affair, waving a hand in the air. 

Perhaps photography, Jango thought. Or maybe he had been an intern or assistant. But fifteen was young to be working with Kryze. Kryze would have already been making waves back then.

“We had a good time together,” Kenobi said. “But it didn’t work out, and I left Mandalore.”

Jango’s eyes narrowed. As far as stories went, it was as vague as some of the interviews that Jango had given. All true, and no substance to pick at. Kenobi clearly didn’t want to talk about it. “So are we talking to Kryze?”

“She said she’d ask around for me, and she sent me a message that I haven’t had a chance to read.” Kenobi smiled at him. “I thought we could look it over together.”

Jango sat next to Kenobi so they could look over his datapad together. Kenobi didn’t seem bothered at Jango’s workout clothes pressing against his crisp suit. He just slid the datapad between them, flicked past some news article about civil unrest, and opened up the message. Jango only had a moment to catch a glimpse of friendly conversation before Kenobi was scrolling further down.

Kryze had pointed out that almost every company could benefit from that much talent, but none of the entertainment industries had shown any connection to them. She’d gotten a contract lawyer to take a look at the terms that the clones were forced to serve under, but it was remarkably vague. They had been commissioned for the entertainment of the people, apparently. That wasn’t terminology that any entertainment industry would bandy around in a contract. In interviews, sure. For marketing, sure. In a contract?

Jango hadn’t been expecting much from Kryze, but it was still a letdown.

Kenobi sighed. “Any ideas?”

“Some hotshot new company with an easily exploitable loophole?”

“With the funds to create that many clones?”

“Took out a high-interest loan,” Jango suggested.

“Dooku has connections with Banking Clans, he’ll let me know if that’s the case.” Kenobi didn’t look pleased. “But I doubt it.”

“So we’re back to Plan A.”

Kenobi looked upset. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I had better information to give you, but it seems like we’re just hitting dead ends all the time.”

Jango shrugged. “Back to Plan A.”

“Plan A,” Kenobi agreed. He smiled, wryly. “There’s an upside to that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Kenobi smiled. “Even if you’re just teaching, it’s good to see you dance.”

* * *

Jango stood in the empty studio, thinking about his debut single, that simple song about love. He sank into the opening pose, wondering if his muscles still remembered every move. He thought he could sense Jaster’s eyes on him, his instructor’s voices as they corrected him.

He took a step, and then a second one. He could hear the melody, could hear the harmony, could remember every movement. He’d performed it hundreds, if not thousands of times. It was ingrained into him.

He thought about dancing, and then he straightened without moving.

He’d retired after Galidraan.

But even as he turned to leave, he paused. Kenobi had stood here. Kenobi had remembered every move of his debut single, had performed it, effortless and easy in a way he wouldn’t have expected from his prim and proper attire.

He turned and left; there was something about Kenobi lingering in the back of his mind.

* * *

Boil and Waxer were bickering when Jango showed up to rehearsals the next day, looking like they were gearing up to fight. They were nearing the next stop on their tour, and rehearsal today was more to strengthen stamina than to work out any issues with the choreography. They were working more and more as a well-oiled unit the longer Jango worked with them, developing their individual strengths while remaining meshed together. Boil and Waxer in particular had always gotten along well, and the choreography called for that rapport to be shown to the audience. This was an unexpected development.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Cody said. He threw the others a look, and the bickering stopped. Waxer physically stepped away from Boil. “We’re ready for rehearsal.”

Jango’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t seem like nothing.” Boil’s hands were still clenched into fists.

Cody stepped in front of them. “It’s nothing,” he repeated, again. He stared back—Jango’s face, years younger. It was uncomfortable to look at, almost like seeing reruns of his holodramas airing.

But he couldn’t let them fight with each other. They had to present a united front, friendly, getting along. That was part of the appeal, the easy friendship on view, the thought that if you spent enough time, paid enough money, was a big enough fan, you could get into that same comradery. 

Jango took a deep breath.

“What’s going on?” Kenobi asked, his voice mild. He was holding a datapad in one hand and a thermos of tea in the other. 

“Sir,” Cody said, stiffly. “Nothing is going on.”

Kenobi glanced at them, taking in their postures. His gaze lingered for a long time on Boil’s clenched fists, Waxer determinedly studying the wall. “Rehearsal, then?” His voice was just as mild as it was before.

Jango whirled on him.

Kenobi interrupted, before Jango could say anything, “I’m sure that if it was important, the boys would say something.”

He was implacable. Jango stalked to the front of the studio, watching as the boys took their places before the mirrors. Five mirror images of himself, all with the same stubborn expression on their faces. Kenobi leaned in the doorway, his expression still blank.

Jango started rehearsal. He worked them until they were too tired to fight, and then sent them to run laps.

Kenobi watched the entire time.

“They can’t fight,” Jango said, after the boys had left. “The audience will never go for it.”

“They can fight when they aren’t in front of an audience,” Kenobi replied. “You can’t take that away from them.”

“Fighting is what got me into this mess,” Jango hissed, Galidraan fresh in his mind.

Kenobi’s hand was warm on his arm. “You can’t tell them to always be working. There has to be a time when the cameras turn off.”

A hundred boybands with his face and his voice and his penchant for violence. Jango felt a dark shiver up his spine. He remembered the fury that had sent him out of dance studios and into back alleys. He had thought that he was safe from the cameras, when he went into the underground fights. He had been wrong. “The cameras are never off.”

“They’re off here,” Kenobi said. “If there’s anything I can do, I can guarantee that.”

* * *

Kenobi said, “They didn’t come to us with names.”

Kenobi had sent the boys to bed early. They would be arriving at the Yavin system tomorrow for a series of performances. He said it was important for them to be well-rested. Jango had thought about locking himself in a dance studio and dancing until he was too tired to keep his eyes open, but Kenobi had touched him on the elbow, and led him into Kenobi’s room, sat down with glasses of whisky.

Jango watched the ice melt in his glass. “What?”

“They were numbered.” His face was steady, far-seeing. “They didn’t have names, when we found them. Just numbers. CC-2224 instead of Cody.”

Jango swallowed.

“On Kamino, they said we could name them whatever we wanted. Whatever we thought best. Whatever would make the most sense, for the marketing department.”

A blank slate, for them to twist into an image for worship.

Kenobi said, “You were in the industry. You know what it’s like. They take whatever you have and they amplify what they want the audience to see. The rest of it is gone. You’re whatever they say you should be.”

Jaster hadn’t been like that. He’d let Jango have input. But Kenobi’s voice was steady.

“They didn’t have names,” Kenobi repeated. “They were just—” He threw back his whisky, poured himself another finger of it. “They didn’t have names.”

“They have names now.”

“They do.”

“Did you give them?”

“No.” He shuddered. “No. Goodness. They named themselves. Before they could debut, they had to come up with their own name. I couldn’t.” He drank, again. “I couldn’t name them.”

Jango had never had to come up with a stage name. He’d always just been Jango Fett. But he knew of people who took up stage names, got used to being called by them, let themselves get eroded after years of being called by another name, years of wearing a stranger’s face as they stood in front of the camera.

“That explains some of their names,” Jango said. He didn’t know about the names of the clones outside of the 212th, but he suspected that more of them were along the lines of Waxer and Boil and Wooley and Longshot than Cody, if they had picked their own names. 

“It was the least that we could do,” Kenobi said. “Letting them pick their own names. Letting them choose what people would call them.”

Jaster had asked. Asked if he wanted to go by a stage name. Asked if he was willing. Lots of people renamed themselves for the stage, he said. Lots of people took new monikers. He could have a different name, something more striking, something easier to market.

Jango had refused, and Jaster hadn’t pressed.

Kenobi was staring at his empty glass. “Identical faces,” Kenobi said. “Without names. To bring joy to the people.” His mouth twisted. “I wish I could believe it was some altruistic goal, but it isn’t. They didn’t ask you for your genetic material, they stole it. They didn’t give them anything beyond vocal and dance training. They made hundreds of identical clones for the purpose of singing and dancing. Why?”

“Clones with my face,” Jango reminded him. Clones with his voice. 

“They aren’t you, though.”

“Haven’t gotten themselves beaten up in enough underground fights, yet, you mean?”

“No.” Kenobi set his glass aside. He met Jango’s eyes steadily. “You were always something else, Jango Fett.”

The air felt tense and charged.

“You could have taken over the galaxy.” Kenobi’s voice was fervent. “You were _amazing_. Everybody knew that. Dooku knew that. Why do you think—”

Jango’s heart pounded in his ears.

“Whoever planned this… they picked you for a reason. They picked you to make clones of for a reason.”

“Did your research, did you?” Jango’s mouth was very dry.

Kenobi said, “You could have taken over the galaxy,” again, very carefully, as if rolling the words in his mouth. “You were _going_ to take over the galaxy. You were brilliant. Nobody could look away. I—”

“Kenobi?”

His eyes were bright and focused. “You should call me Obi-Wan.”

* * *

Obi-Wan Kenobi had been a boy, when Jango was still performing. He had been a boy, and he had seen a performance on the holo, and he had known that Jango was going to make it. Sometimes, you just knew. Sometimes, you saw somebody and they had _it_ , some magnetizing factor that kept you riveted.

Jango would sing, and Obi-Wan would believe every word he sang. He danced, and Obi-Wan couldn’t look away. Jango Fett could take over the galaxy, _would_ take over the galaxy. He just needed time.

Obi-Wan had been a boy, and he had known. He had known, and he had wanted.


	4. Yavin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango watches a performance of the 212th, and Obi-Wan comes up with a change in plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is discussion of restricted eating/diets in this chapter during the third scene. It's rather brief but I did want to warn for it.

It’s a striking name, the man had said, his voice smooth and cultured. But perhaps too exotic for the galaxy. It would be best to change it. Something easier to pronounce. Something easier to remember. Short. Easier for the fans to shout. Easier to market. A better name. 

Ben.

Ben, are you listening?

Ben.

Satine had held his hand and called him Ben, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“My name is Obi-Wan,” he said. “Please. Call me Obi-Wan.”

And Satine had looked at him and called him Obi-Wan from then on. Had called him Obi-Wan in front of the crowd, by accident, and the man had looked at him and demanded, don’t you know what we’re doing for you, don’t you understand what you’ve done?

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he said.

You will never succeed, with a name like that, Ben. Too exotic. Too strange. Not mainstream enough. The market is tough, Ben. They would never accept such a strange name, Ben. You need to choose, Ben.

Obi-Wan chose.

* * *

Obi-Wan watched the entire performance from the wings. He coordinated costume changes, managed water bottles, made sure that mics were on and balanced.

Jango found himself surprised, despite himself.

He hadn’t expected Obi-Wan to be as hands-on as he was. He’d expected Obi-Wan to stand with tea in one hand and datapad in the other, prim and pressed, cataloging the entire performance and taking notes. But Obi-Wan, for all that he wasn’t on stage, seemed to thrive during the performance. The sounds of the crowd brought a flush of excitement to his cheeks. His eyes shown when he stared out at the lights.

He could have been on stage, Jango thought. He had the looks, and he had seen him dance. He could.

He set the thought aside and instead focused on the boys on stage, the roar of the crowd. For all that they sang banal feel-good propaganda about cleaning house, they were charming enough, and the crowd responded. Jango had loved performing—the rush of being on stage had been enough to make up for all of the restrictions on his life.

Seeing these men with his face and his voice perform was difficult. Like watching old performances of his, which he could barely stand, but different. He didn’t know if he was embarrassed to see his face and hear his voice, or if he was jealous that they were on stage and he wasn’t.

Boil leaned down to slap palms with a little Twilek girl in the audience, who beamed. Waxer flung an arm around Boil as they sang into the same microphone. Boil didn’t shove him away.

Obi-Wan met Jango’s gaze. Jango didn’t look away.

They went out for two encores, and then the stage lights flickered off for the last time that night and the boys piled backstage, flush with adrenaline. Obi-Wan gave them all high-fives in lieu of hugs, praising their performances, their energy, before hustling them to the green room to get changed.

Backstage came alive with the shuffling of staff. Beyond the stage, there was the low chatter of the audience dispersing. Obi-Wan turned to Jango. “Thoughts?”

Jango said, “They’re good.”

“They are.” Obi-Wan smiled. His tea must be cold by now, but he hadn’t put it down. He looked over the stage, smile wistful. “It was something to watch.”

Jango hadn’t liked watching it at all. He still didn’t know how much of that was the fact that they wore his face.

“Do you want to?” Obi-Wan asked. He jerked his head towards the stage. “Stand on stage again?”

Alone, with nobody to watch.

“No,” Jango said.

That part of his life was over, and he would find out who made the clones so he could keep it that way.

* * *

They were at Yavin for a week, performing at all the major cities. They did rehearsals on the stages to get used to it, and Jango tried to look at these men with his face and not cringe away.

He spent more time with Obi-Wan.

“Master Dooku hasn’t told me anything yet,” Obi-Wan said, when Jango slid across from him during midmeal. It was more of a break in rehearsals than a formal meal, with catered food and a few tables laid out for staff to sit and eat at. Somebody had rigged a datapad to play music. Obi-Wan’s datapad was showing a news broadcast.

Jango raised an eyebrow back.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan flushed. 

“Is that all you’re going to eat?”

Obi-Wan had barely any food on his plate. It looked vaguely familiar. All lean protein without excess carbs. He hadn’t thought that anybody chose to eat like that on purpose.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Not hungry.”

Jango _liked_ being able to eat whatever he wanted. He liked being able to eat a snack if he wanted instead of having to count his calories. It was one of his favorite parts of retirement. He’d stayed fit despite suddenly having freedom in his dietary choices, but that was more because he had too much energy to laze around than because he was making good dietary choices.

“If that’s all you’re eating, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Steamed vegetables. Steamed lean meat. Not even a sauce, because sauces were fattening. It looked exactly like what Jango’d been forced to eat when he’d been scheduled for a holodrama that involved a lot of shirtless scenes. It had been several months of bland steamed food. He’d been glad when filming was over. “Why are you even eating food like that?”

Obi-Wan stared down at it. “Oh,” he said, lightly. “It’s easier on my stomach.”

“But hell on your appetite.” Jango began dividing his food onto Obi-Wan’s plate. Catering had provided plenty of options for the staff; certainly enough that Obi-Wan didn’t need to willingly choose what he did. Jango gave him a nerf sandwich, a handful of fried tubers, some gravy for his steamed meat and vegetables.

“It’s fine,” Obi-Wan said.

“You don’t even make the boys eat like this,” Jango pointed out.

Obi-Wan didn’t. He let them eat what they wanted, within reason. The refectory on the ship always offered healthy options, and he asked them to refrain from eating too many empty calories. The boys listened to Obi-Wan. Jango hadn’t been given that much freedom, when he was still performing.

“I’m not hungry,” Obi-Wan tried again.

“Eat,” Jango insisted, and waited for Obi-Wan picked up the utensils to eat to work through his own plate.

Obi-Wan finished the plate, drank his tea, and studied Jango Fett thoughtfully. “You didn’t come over just to make me eat.”

Jango grunted. He sipped his caff. “Maybe I did.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkled at the sides when he smiled—a small smile, not the holoactor smiles he’d given in the past. “I meant it when I said that Master Dooku hasn’t gotten back to me yet. It’s far too early.”

“Why do you let him string you out like that?”

He sipped his tea, still smiling wryly. “What do you know about Master Dooku?”

He ruined Jango’s career. He was responsible for bringing to light all of Jango’s indiscretions. He hadn’t wanted money, wasn’t willing to be bribed. The only thing that satisfied him was the complete annihilation of Jango’s potential career.

He didn’t know why.

“Master Dooku,” Obi-Wan said, thoughtfully, “has always had ambitions. He wanted to succeed, and he decided that the best way to do that was puppet his own people to the top.”

“So Galidraan was what?”

“To get you out of the way.” Obi-Wan said, “You could have taken over the galaxy, Jango.” He curled his tongue around the syllables of his name, slow and careful. 

“And now he’s stringing you along because of me?”

“No.” Obi-Wan stopped smiling. “I did say we had a falling out.”

“You didn’t like his plans?”

“I disagreed strongly with them. There was a rather loud argument.”

Jango closed his eyes. After he had retired, there had been plenty of pop stars that had risen and fallen. None had achieved any amount of fame. Certainly nobody had gone on to dominate the galaxy. “Dooku didn’t succeed,” he said. “His plans.”

“No.” Obi-Wan said steadily. “He never went through with them, in the end. But he’s always wanted to try again.”

* * *

Obi-Wan watched the boys perform from the wings, his eyes bright. One hand held his thermos of tea. The other held a datapad. Every performance, Obi-Wan was there.

Jango stood next to him, close enough that he could touch if he wanted to. They stood together, watching as the boys perform. Obi-Wan could stay in a greenroom, could find a place to sit and watch the concert from a monitor, but he didn’t. Every moment the boys were on their feet, so Obi-Wan also was, eyes bright.

The crowd grew and grew throughout the week. Obi-Wan, checking on the other groups, reported their success as well. People were taking notice of Jango’s clones. People were listening. Their songs were creeping into the Top 20 charts, even if their lyrics were about the how the Republic could fix all of the problems in the galaxy, as long as you trusted them. The news cycles took breaks from talking about important news like how planets who supported increasing government authority were showing lower crime rates to talk about how boybands of clones were touring the galaxy and making waves. All around the galaxy, groups with Jango’s face and Jango’s voice were making an impact.

Obi-Wan tracked their success on his everpresent datapad. “You could have taken over the galaxy,” he said, with a wry smile every time he saw how the clones were doing, how much impact they had across different demographics. 

“With what army?” Jango retorted.

With your voice. With your song. “You have one now,” Obi-Wan suggested. Hundreds, if not thousands of clones with his face, his voice travelling across the airwaves into homes and stores. His voice, singing its way into the hearts of sentients.

“They’re more the Jedi than mine, at this point.”

“They’re your voice,” Obi-Wan said.

“But they aren’t singing my words.”

Obi-Wan paused at that. His brows drew tight.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Just a thought.” He smiled, the holodrama actor smile that he’d given Jango the first time they met. Sweet and light, easy and flirtatious. It was easy to like that smile. Now that Jango had seen the way Obi-Wan’s eyes could crinkle when he meant it, Jango hated it.

“Credit for it?”

“My thoughts aren’t that cheap.” But Obi-Wan’s eyes were crinkling at the edges. “I might be making changes to Plan A.”

“Good ones, I hope.”

“I think you’ll see it that way.”

Beyond the dark bustle in the wings, the crowd roared. A pop song—one with terrible lyrics about loving the government, of all things—blared out from the speakers. But it seemed quiet, muffled, backstage. Jango could reach out and touch Obi-Wan by the elbow. Could press his fingers against the soft fabric of his suit.

There was a series of shrill screams.

“That’ll be Cody taking off his shirt,” Obi-Wan said, with that same crinkle in his eye.

Jango snorted in response.

“He’s been working out. And you keep them fit.”

“I’m impressed he has energy to work out, after rehearsals.”

“He’s very tenacious like that.”

Jango made a note to push Cody harder in rehearsals.

Obi-Wan looked at him. His hands were full, one with the datapad and one with the thermos of tea. But his elbow brushed against Jango’s, and he said, “It reminds me of you.”

His tongue was thick in his mouth. In the darkness of the wings, Obi-Wan seemed to loom, as if he were about to take flight. “You don’t know me.”

Obi-Wan stepped back. A slash of light from the stage fell across his face—pale, tired. He was, in the end, just a human. He said, “No, I suppose I don’t.”

* * *

“They taught them songs to sing, in Kamino. When we took over management of the boys, we thought it would make more sense to let them keep singing the same songs. They were good songs.”

“Republic propaganda,” Jango said.

Obi-Wan ignored him. “What if the songs were part of the plan? What if we changed the songs?”

“How are you going to just get new songs?” Song rights cost money. Commissioning new songs would take time.

“You have songs,” Obi-Wan said. “Your songs, you have the right to perform them. And these boys…”

They were Jango, in some sense. His face. His voice. 

They could perform the songs he had stopped singing. They could dance the choreography he no longer danced. He would have to look at these men with his face and his voice and it would be a thousand times worse than looking at his old performances, because they were still performing and he wasn’t. He was old and washed up and these men would replace him in every sense of the word.

“I don’t make these decisions,” Jango said, weakly. “Jaster always managed this.”

He’d let Jaster make the decisions, when he was performing. It was expected, to sign his life into another person’s hands. 

But Obi-Wan was staring at him, so seriously. “Jango. Please.”

Jango said, “I don’t remember them anymore,” and it was a lie.

Obi-Wan said, “I do.”

* * *

After their last performance on Yavin, the 212th retreated to the ship to rest and prepare for the next leg of their tour. Jango stood on the empty stage, watching as chairs were folded to be put away, as lights were dismantled, as sound systems unplugged. The droids worked with brisk efficiency.

He stood on the empty stage. There was nobody around except for the droids. Nobody to notice him.

He closed his eyes and thought of the songs he had sung so many times he could never forget the words. He closed his eyes and let his muscle memory move him.

There were no lights to shine in his eyes, no sound blaring out across the stage, no crowd roaring for him.

He lied, when he said he didn’t remember his old music. The words had worked their way deep into his throat. The choreography had sunk hooks into his muscles. He had practiced these songs a thousand times. He had performed them a hundred times.

There was nobody here now. He sang and danced for no one.

Except for the quiet applause before him.

He opened his eyes. Obi-Wan Kenobi stood before him. His thermos and datapad were on the ground before him. He was smiling, the smile where the corners of his eyes crinkled. There was something soft in Obi-Wan’s face.

“I thought you were with the boys,” Jango said.

“I came back,” Obi-Wan replied.

Jango stood, tongue-tied. His breath came slowly, in rasping gasps. His heart pounded in his chest. It wasn’t just from the exertion of dancing.

“You could have taken over the galaxy,” Obi-Wan said, again. “You still could.” He stepped forward. His hands fell to his sides. He didn’t pick up the thermos or the datapad.

Obi-Wan stood before him—almost the same height, just a little taller. He touched Jango’s bicep with a hand, let his fingers trail down the arm. His touch sent shivers up Jango’s spine.

Jango caught Obi-Wan’s hand before he could pull away. He twisted their fingers together. “I didn’t,” he said. “Take over the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes were very blue, even in the little remaining light. Around them, the droids buzzed. The stage was already being dismantled. The longer they stayed, the longer they risked it falling apart under their feet.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said. “I know.”

He didn’t know who moved first. But their foreheads pressed against each other’s, and then Obi-Wan’s free hand was tangling into Jango’s hair, Jango was pressing Obi-Wan close, and Obi-Wan was so warm underneath his touch as they kissed.


	5. Hyperspace II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango struggles with teaching the boys his old work. As they continue touring, Jango must contend with memories of his past and Galidraan, and Obi-Wan’s connection to Dooku.

Watching the boys learn his songs burned.

The part of him that had never gotten over Galidraan raged every time he taught the boys the choreography he had perfected in his youth. He had thought that part of him had faded over time, but bringing out his old songs made it flare, bright and hot.

Obi-Wan looked at him so carefully, like he knew what Jango was feeling.

They had his face. They had his voice. They were singing his songs. It was like looking back in time, except without any of the sweetness of nostalgia. 

Jango was furious after every rehearsal. He was furious during every rehearsal. He pushed the boys harder and harder, until they were practically falling as they left the studio.

Obi-Wan came up to him. He had a bottle of water in a hand, pressed it to Jango’s. “You push them hard,” he said.

He’d always learned music quickly, always picked up on choreography rapidly. The boys were no different. They were learning the songs, learning their parts. Jango had been a solo artist, but the boys were a group. They divided the lines. Obi-Wan wrote a harmony as if he had been doing it for years. Jango took the solo choreography and changed it for a group. The boys were learning, as fast as Jango always had.

He hated it.

“It’ll be a bit longer before they perform them,” Obi-Wan offered. “It certainly won’t be at Felucia.” Their next stop. “I’ll have to talk to Mace and the others.”

Jango closed his eyes at the thought of even more people with his face and his voice singing his songs. He drank the water.

Obi-Wan stood patiently by.

“Shouldn’t you be with the boys?”

“I think they’ll be fine.” Obi-Wan never brought up Jango’s earlier lie either. It was clear that Jango remembered every song he’d ever performed, remembered every piece of choreography he’d learned. He didn’t need any assistance remembering, for all that Obi-Wan said he knew Jango’s work. Obi-Wan said, very softly, “Jango.”

Obi-Wan was always impeccable, hair swept back, beard neatly trimmed, every inch of him put together. Jango was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, keeping his muscles warm while he ran rehearsal. He had spent enough time demonstrating the moves that his brow was damp.

Obi-Wan reached up, brushed his hair back and kissed him. His beard rasped against Jango’s jaw. His lips were soft and warm.

Jango pulled back. “What was that about?”

Obi-Wan said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For teaching them your songs.”

Jango swallowed. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“For the plan,” Obi-Wan agreed. He stepped back. His hand lingered on Jango’s cheek for a moment, before it dropped down. “Still.”

“Still.”

Obi-Wan turned to leave. He stopped by the door to pick up his ever present datapad and thermos of tea. “I know it’s hard for you.”

Jango watched Obi-Wan leave and cursed.

* * *

Jango watched the boys dance.

They picked up the choreography as fast as he did. Perhaps this was why whoever was behind this had picked Jango to clone. Perhaps they had known how easily choreography came to him. Or perhaps it was their training at Kamino, that gave them the skills to learn combinations so quickly.

They were all the same height, all of the same build. Identical, all of them. They fit seamlessly together as a group, in crisp white with gold accents. If it weren’t for their haircuts and tattoos, they would be indistinguishable.

He felt sick to his stomach, watching them. He could still hear the roar of the crowd. They had loved these clones of him. They would love them more, with his songs.

He hadn’t _wanted_ to retire. He had wanted to perform until he couldn’t move anymore. He had loved singing, loved dancing, and Galidraan had ruined that. Dooku had ruined that. Had ground that joy underneath his heel and left him with ashes in his throat when he tried to sing, lead in his muscles when he tried to dance.

These boys didn’t have the same problem. They wouldn’t. They would take Jango’s music and take over the galaxy with it.

With every second, they crept closer to Felucia and Galidraan. With every second, Jango’s past loomed larger and larger.

These boys would do what Jango had failed to do.

The thought was ash in his throat, lead in his muscles, fury in his veins.

* * *

Jango had been preparing for a tour that would take him beyond the Outer Rim when Galidraan happened. His previous performances had been limited to Mandalore and the nearby sectors. They were popular, sold out quickly, but Jaster was hesitant to move too quickly. He had seen plenty of talent burn out from poor planning and marketing. When Jango toured the Core, it was going to make an impact.

Jango was ready. He had a good number of top-charting singles, two best-selling albums, and had guest starred in a half-dozen local holodramas. His latest single was making it to the charts in the Mid-Rim, in the Core. He was being played beyond Mandalore, beyond the Outer Rim.

Jaster had decided it was time.

He’d been thrumming with tension throughout rehearsals as he dropped from one planet to another. He struggled to sleep, he was so wound up. After a week of poor sleep and even worse dancing, Jango knew something needed to change. It had been a matter of slipping out and going to one of the many underground fights he shadowed. He needed something to pull the adrenaline out of his veins, needed to exhaust himself so he could pass out and wake up well-rested.

Jaster was looking at him with something like doubt in his eyes. Jango couldn’t let that doubt fester. He had to sleep. He had to do something. Jango wouldn’t let him take this chance away. 

Instead, Jango had thrown his future away as surely as he threw that punch.

* * *

Obi-Wan found him in his berth that night. The berth was small, but private. Jango had been sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling through a datapad listlessly when Obi-Wan arrived. The news was always the same, reports of unprovoked violence, reports of danger and danger that just needed to be dealt with. It was almost a relief to see news about the boys, instead of whatever else was out there.

Obi-Wan slipped in. He came with empty hands—no thermos of tea, no ever present datapad.

Jango set his own aside. “Not here to work?”

“No.” Obi-Wan sat down beside him, close enough that Jango could feel his warmth. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

Obi-Wan hesitated. “Are you… satisfied with your life?”

With each day filled with his old songs, with each parsec they drew closer to the Thanium sector, Galidraan was fresh in Jango’s memory. For a moment, he was furious. But this was Obi-Wan asking, and in the harsh fluorescent lights, his skin was pale and washed out. His voice was soft.

Jango was bitter. “I lost everything, with Galidraan.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. He exhaled through his nose, harsh and sudden. “I know,” he said.

“Do you?” Fury licked in his veins. “Do you know what Dooku _did_?”

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan’s calm was like the tide, washing away the anger. “What?”

“I know what Dooku did. He told me.” Obi-Wan stared steadily forward. He didn’t turn to face Jango. “We had a falling out, as I said.”

Obi-Wan had mentioned that he and Dooku had a falling out. Jango hadn’t thought it was over Galidraan.

“You had a falling out over Galidraan?” His voice cracked.

Obi-Wan didn’t look at him. His back was straight. He folded his hands in his lap. “Yes. I disagreed with his decision.”

Dooku had spread the rumors of Jango’s violence. Had suggested he was unhinged. Had implied that he wasn’t fit to be around polite company. There had been tabloids suggesting that he should be locked up for his own safety. Oh, there was nothing implying that Dooku was behind the whole thing—he’d spread his rumors through proxies, bought off tabloid reporters, had his people buy airtime. But it had been Dooku behind it all. Jango had gone from about to tour the Core to retired in the matter of days.

Jango had been 22 when Galidraan happened. Obi-Wan would have been nine.

“When did you find out what Dooku did?”

“I found out when I was fourteen.”

Five years later. He had moved to Concord Dawn by then, staying with his sister Arla. 

“How did you find out?”

“As I said. Dooku told me.”

“Proud of it, was he?”

“Very.”

Obi-Wan still didn’t look at him. He stared straight ahead. Jango had a sudden need to see Obi-Wan’s face, to see his eyes, to see _him_. He cupped Obi-Wan’s cheek in a palm, turned his head.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were very wide and very blue.

Jango said, “You knew what he did.”

Obi-Wan said, “I’m sorry about what happened, Jango.”

Jango pressed his forehead to Obi-Wan’s. He inhaled, sharply. Obi-Wan’s posture softened, his arms came up to cradle Jango’s shoulders. For a long time, they simply breathed together.

Obi-Wan’s voice was a fervent murmur, “I never wanted you to stop performing, Jango. I swear it.”

* * *

Obi-Wan was always watching.

One hand holding a thermos of tea, the other holding a datapad, his blue eyes so thoughtful as Jango corrected the boys, pushing them harder and harder. The performance was taking a different shape than it had when it was just Jango. Five identical faces, five identical voices. They layered over each other in distinct harmony, and the music wasn’t the same anymore. The performance wasn’t the same anymore.

Obi-Wan watched from the doorway as he always did. He never contributed much when Jango was working the boys through their paces. Just watched, with that distant look in his eyes. When Jango let the boys go to get food and rest, Obi-Wan was still there, watching him.

“Did you stop dancing entirely?” Obi-Wan asked.

Jango looked at him.

“After Galidraan.” Obi-Wan swallowed. “Did you stop entirely?”

After Galidraan, there was a brief moment when Jango had thought about making a comeback. A year or so later, when the scandal died down. He’d thought he could wait out the tabloids.

Jaster had stopped him, had said, “I’m sorry.” Had told him that his reputation was too badly shattered, that Dooku could pull out whatever scandal he wanted at the drop of a hat, that he couldn’t risk it. He had other talent that Dooku could get at, if Jango wanted to come back. He couldn’t risk them.

Jango had stopped dancing entirely at that point.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, expression pained. It eased, swept into something decidedly neutral. “Dooku has always been ruthless,” he said, finally.

“You knew him, back then.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan didn’t look happy about it. “He thought he was doing what was best.”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

But Obi-Wan didn’t give in on this. He shook his head. His knuckles were white where they clenched around his usual thermos of tea and datapad. “It’s not an excuse. I wouldn’t make excuses for him. It’s exactly what he thought.”

“And that makes it right?” His entire life, washed down the drain by Dooku. His entire potential, set ablaze.

Obi-Wan met his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jango. You know that.”

Obi-Wan had been nine when Galidraan happened. He was uninvolved. And he was trying, now, to do what he could to protect the clones, to find out who had stolen Jango’s DNA. He didn’t deserve Jango’s ire.

Jango said, “I stopped when it was clear I was never going to perform again.”

When it was clear that Dooku wasn’t satisfied with just stopping Jango’s career, but making sure it never had a chance to take off again.

Obi-Wan said, “You danced on Yavin.”

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Would that have changed things?”

Obi-Wan ignored the question. “Will you dance now?”

“Dance what?” He snorted. “My old work? You see the boys dance that all the time, now, if that’s what you want to see. You’re here in every rehearsal.”

Obi-Wan was implacable. “They aren’t you.”

Jango shied away from the statement; he thought of that first night, when he had seen Obi-Wan dancing his debut single in the studio, alone. “Do you dance?”

Obi-Wan blinked, taken by surprise. “No,” he said.

“Not ever?”

“Ah.” He turned away. “I did, when I was younger.”

“Why did you stop?”

Jango had stopped because he hadn’t been able to dance without thinking of everything he’d lost. Obi-Wan, on the other hand.

Obi-Wan said, “Perhaps for similar reasons as you. Bad memories.”

Part of Jango wanted to press, wanted to expose Obi-Wan’s secrets. He knew that Obi-Wan could dance. He had _seen_ him. And Obi-Wan seemed to know so much about him: his past, Galidraan, everything that Dooku had done to him. But Jango had been a celebrity. Obi-Wan was a soft manager who stayed behind the scenes. There was no reason for Jango to have access to the same information on Obi-Wan’s past as Obi-Wan had on Jango’s past.

On impulse, Jango said, “I’ll teach you the choreography.”

Obi-Wan blinked at him, startled.

“You can dance, again—”

“That’s not necessary,” Obi-Wan interrupted. He didn’t let go of what he was holding. “I’d rather watch you dance, if you’d be willing.”

Jango thought of that night. He had looked so _peaceful_ , in motion.

But Obi-Wan didn’t let go. “Thank you, Jango.”

Obi-Wan was always present, always watching. He wouldn’t dance. But if Obi-Wan wanted to see Jango…

He stood in the center of the studio. He closed his eyes and let himself remember.

* * *

He went to the dance studio that night. The ship was quiet, everybody sleeping in anticipation for another day of rehearsal. They would be reaching Felucia soon. The new songs weren’t ready to debut, so they would have to spend the next few days brushing off the Republic propaganda shit so they put on a good show.

The lights were on in the studio. Obi-Wan stood in the middle of it, as he had that first night that Jango had seen him. His head was bowed, and the lights caught on the threads of red in his hair. He was wearing leggings and a tunic, going effortlessly through the same choreography that Jango had taught the boys earlier today.

He didn’t dance like he was learning the moves. He danced like he knew them. When he moved, Jango thought he could hear music—the sound of his voice singing, the thumping of the bass in the background, the chime of the hi-hat. 

Obi-Wan moved like he was meant to dance.

Jango stood in the shadows and watched, unwilling to make a sound. And, when Obi-Wan finished, he raised his head and in the mirrored walls of the studio, Jango could see that he was crying.


	6. Felucia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango struggles with his feelings, and his relationship with Obi-Wan changes in light of it.

Obi-Wan found him as they were approaching Felucia. “Galidraan’s one of our stops,” he said.

“Is it?” Jango pretended he hadn’t read the detailed itinerary that Obi-Wan had provided, pretended he hadn’t felt Galidraan looming over him their entire time in transit. They were spending a week in Felucia, and then stopping at Galidraan for three days. Jango hadn’t returned to Galidraan in over a decade.

“Will you be alright?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Obi-Wan looked away. “I talked to Mace and the others about using your music.”

Galidraan was too close. Jango’s voice was tight. “What did they say?”

“They’re willing to give it a try. The 212th will add them into the setlist.”

“At Felucia?”

Obi-Wan hesitated. “No. It’s too early for that. The staff need some more advanced notice to coordinate the lights and sound system.”

Obi-Wan’s hesitation meant one thing. “They agreed to make the change at Galidraan.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I wish it wasn’t Galidraan.”

Galidraan, of all planets. The same planet where his career had ended the first time. Now he would have to watch clones of himself perform his songs at Galidraan. He’d get to watch even the memory of his career get replaced.

Obi-Wan had come to him with empty hands. He touched Jango on the elbow. “Jango,” he said, softly. “We can put it off…”

They were docking. The ship shuddered a little as it landed. There was a bright ding before the pilot announced that they had landed, that it was time to start unloading gear and crew. He could hear the halls echo with the sounds of sentients getting ready to disembark.

Jango pulled away. “The sooner we find out who’s behind this, the better,” Jango said. “The boys can debut the songs at Galidraan.”

Obi-Wan didn’t say anything. He just watched him leave.

* * *

That night, Jango found him backstage, watching the boys perform.

He’d spent the day wandering the streets, stepping into shops, browsing stalls. There were adverts for the 212th’s concert on the screens, playing on the holos between reports of unrest in planets that needed to be quelled, and the Republic deserved more authority to create a Galactic Defense Force. The adverts were almost a welcome reprieve from blatant reports of government overreach. Jango covered his face to avoid nosy paparazzi, and for a second, it was as if Galidraan had never happened.

But Galidraan had happened. It had defined his life into two distinct time periods: before and after Galidraan. He would never be able to get away from that.

His chest was tight with memory when he approached Obi-Wan. He touched Obi-Wan on the shoulder, noticed the muscles tense as he turned, hands full as they usually were.

“Jango.” Obi-Wan’s voice was hushed, as backstage thrummed with the sound of bass and the roar of the crowd.

He nodded back. “How are the boys doing?”

“Good.” 

He didn’t step away. Instead, he shifted, let his arm drape across Obi-Wan’s shoulders, pressed their bodies close. He didn’t apologize for earlier in the day. Instead, he stood, side-by-side with Obi-Wan, and peered out into the bright lights of the stage.

The boys moved as a unit, as they always did. They practically glowed in the bright lights of the stage. 

Jango had been like them, once.

“Do you feel better now?” Obi-Wan’s voice was still quiet. He didn’t step away. His posture eased, relaxed into Jango’s hold.

He didn’t know if he would ever get over Galidraan. “I got you something.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll give it to you later.”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan’s voice had a smile in it. “We’re working now, aren’t we?”

“Can’t let the boys slack off,” Jango agreed. But their singing was good, their dancing was good. Waxer was pumping up the crowd, encouraging them to clap to the beat. Cody was leading the song, comfortable on stage. There was less and less for Jango to nitpick. 

Obi-Wan made a quiet humming agreement. “We don’t have to debut the new songs at Galidraan,” he murmured into Jango’s ear as the song ended and the crowd roared.

Jango’s fingers tensed, and then he forced them to relax. Obi-Wan was comfortable in his hold. “Whatever you deem best, Master Manager.”

He was holding Obi-Wan, so he could feel the muscles tense suddenly at his words before they relaxed deliberately. “Of course,” Obi-Wan said, amiably. “As long as you’re fine with it. We’ll keep going with the plan, then?”

“It’s a good plan.” But Jango tucked that tension into the back of his mind to contemplate.

* * *

He’d found a marble that was the exact color of Obi-Wan’s hair under the studio lights. It was nothing but sentimentality that made him pick it up, made him cradle the trinket and think of Obi-Wan, the steady breaths, the way his hair fell into his eyes as he moved.

He rolled it in his palm now, wondering if he should have gotten Obi-Wan something else.

Obi-Wan let him into his room at the knock. He was smiling, faintly, the adrenaline of the performance still in his veins for all that he had stayed backstage. “Jango.”

He closed his fingers around the marble, and then took Obi-Wan’s hand and slid it into his palm.

“A marble?”

“I thought of you.”

The glass caught the light. Gold and red flickered within it, like his hair. Jango’s eyes focused on the way it glimmered in the light. He focused on its incandescence. It shone like a star in the night sky.

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan set it on the table, took Jango’s hand and entwined their fingers. “You didn’t have to. You already danced for me.”

Jango pressed close. Tucked their foreheads together. He could feel the steady beat of his heart, like the pulse of a bass, like the rumbling of a drum, a foundation to build on. Obi-Wan’s breaths came light, a melody layering over it. They could make beautiful music together. 

“Dance with me,” Jango said, impulsively.

Obi-Wan stiffened. “I don’t dance anymore,” he said.

“I saw you.” The words came out and Jango had no control over them. “In the studio at night.”

Obi-Wan was very quiet. “I’m sorry for dancing your song.”

That wasn’t what Jango wanted. “That’s not.”

“I know it’s hard for you, to see people perform your work.”

“No.” He pulled away. “Obi-Wan,” he said. “It’s hard to watch the boys because they have my face. But watching you…”

Obi-Wan was meant to be on a stage. It was wrong, that he was always in the wings, never to emerge.

“Dance with me, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan hesitated. “Not now,” he finally said. “When this is all over. When it’s all over, you can ask me again.”

Jango ran his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair, through the red and gold that shone in the lights. They would glow, under the bright stage lights, like fire. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Obi-Wan’s, curled his fingers in his hair, closed his eyes and thought of incandescent fire shining like the stars in his hands and breathed, “I’ll wait.”

* * *

Obi-Wan announced that they would be changing the setlist when they reached Galidraan. They’d be spending some of their time practicing the new choreography on the stages of Felucia, so that they’d be ready once they reached Galidraan. Jango stood in the audience and watched as the boys went through the movements, singing his old songs with his voice, dancing his old choreography with his body.

But it was different, with five voices, with five people passing the lead back and forth. It stung less and less to watch them perform. When it burned particularly hot, he felt Obi-Wan’s steady presence beside him, and relaxed.

“They’re very good,” Obi-Wan said. Longshot shifted to the front of the formation for his line, Wooley moving back. “The changes to the choreography work well with them. I have a good feeling about this.”

Jango raised a brow. He was tempted to shout corrections, but Obi-Wan was right—they were good, and there was little to change. When they got to Galidraan, the boys would be ready.

Obi-Wan’s voice was low, barely audible over the music being played over the speakers. “I’d also like you to meet Anakin.”

One eye on the boys on stage, Jango glanced at Obi-Wan. “Anakin?”

“My brother would be the best term for our relationship. He’s with the 501st, keeping them on-task. I’m not sure who thought it was a good idea to let Anakin manage a group. They’re also on the Outer Rim. Anakin said he could swing by Galidraan, watch the performances with the new songs.”

Anakin also, apparently, hated Dooku with a passion. “You’ll have that in common,” Obi-Wan added, sounding almost cheerful about the whole affair. “Master Dooku was rather cutting with him, when they first met.”

“Is Dooku ever not?”

Obi-Wan’s face shuttered. “I suppose not.”

Jango hesitated. The boys knew what they were doing. They’d make a good showing on Galidraan. Jango wasn’t worried about that. “Does Anakin know about Galidraan?”

“He knows that Dooku’s actions were unforgivable. But he won’t know it’s about you if you don’t want to tell him.”

Jango had wondered if his retirement was gossip among the Jedi, now that they were managing clones of him. Apparently it wasn’t, if Obi-Wan’s own brother wasn’t aware of the details. “Invite him,” Jango said. 

“He’ll like what the boys do.”

Jango shifted, so that he could feel Obi-Wan’s body next to his. He didn’t say that if they were still in the Mandalore sector, he would bring Obi-Wan to meet Arla. The words caught on his tongue, and he swallowed them down instead.

* * *

The days in Felucia took on the same color. He spent his days in rehearsal, getting ready for the changes to the setlist that would start once they reached Galidraan. He stood next to Obi-Wan in the wings during the performances, watching the lights shine across his face.

They were no closer to finding the perpetrator of this madness, and Galidraan loomed before them. But at night, Jango twisted his fingers with Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan looked at him like he had hung all the stars in the sky as he pressed the tips of their fingers against each other. 

Jango thought that the color of Felucia was the red-gold of Obi-Wan’s hair under the stage lights. And when they left for Galidraan—

If Felucia was Obi-Wan’s hair under stage lights, then Galidraan was the color of rust.


	7. Galidraan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Galidraan, old truths come to light.

Galidraan was a lush, forested planet; it was beautiful, by all means. But Jango couldn’t look at Galidraan without remembering his dreams crumbling, without remembering Dooku’s vicious decision to destroy his career.

Obi-Wan stood by him as the ship approached the planet. He had his thermos of tea in one hand, his datapad in the other. He didn’t press Jango’s elbow, or take his hand. But his presence was warm and steady at his side.

“You don’t have to,” Obi-Wan said again.

Obi-Wan was always conscientious to a fault. If Jango had never agreed to let the 212th perform his songs, he was sure that Obi-Wan wouldn’t have pushed. He would have still done everything he could to find who was behind the clones, would have done his best to get Jango’s DNA back, would have done everything he could. 

“I’ve agreed,” Jango said tightly. “Don’t ask me anymore.”

Obi-Wan hesitated, but then he stopped. “Anakin should be here tonight.”

“Shouldn’t he be with his own men?”

“Anakin says they’ll be fine without him.”

Jango didn’t know of any time that he’d been on his own without some sort of managerial influence keeping an eye on him. He’d spent a good amount of time learning to get around the constant attention. Perhaps if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have ended up in an underground fight on Galidraan.

He didn’t bring that up though. “Have you heard from Dooku?”

Obi-Wan smiled, wryly. “Not yet. Though he’ll probably scold me when he hears that the 212th are performing your songs.”

Jango snorted. Anything that could annoy Dooku was good, in his book. It almost made the thought of the boys singing his songs sting less.

“Will you be backstage?” Obi-Wan asked.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say that he would be there, beside Obi-Wan. But this was Galidraan, and they were wearing his face, singing his songs with his voice, dancing the choreography he had learned with his body. He didn’t know if he could stand it.

Obi-Wan said, “You don’t have to come. But I’d like you there.”

Jango didn’t promise, but he didn’t refuse either.

* * *

Anakin didn’t look anything like Obi-Wan. While Obi-Wan looked carefully put together, every inch of him the professional manager that he was, Anakin looked like he’d rolled out of bed and thrown on the first outfit he’d find, some half-clean shirt he’d found on the floor, wrinkled trousers that should have been put in the wash already. He looked like he was barely an adult.

He was, in fact, not even 20.

Jango barely had a moment to glance incredulously at Obi-Wan when that fact was announced. Nineteen and managing a group? What were the Jedi _thinking_?

“We don’t have enough people,” Obi-Wan said, softly. “I assure you, Anakin is very capable.”

Jango had his doubts. He wondered if he was going to hear about the 501st getting caught in underground fights now that they’d been left unsupervised for an evening. 

Anakin said, “So the clones are based off of you?”

Jango raised a brow back. “Clearly,” he drawled.

Anakin looked doubtful. “Why you? I’ve never heard of you before.”

“I was before your time, Kid.”

Predictably, he bristled at that. “I’m not a child!” The petulant tone said otherwise. 

“Jango was very popular before he retired,” Obi-Wan interceded. “I listened to his music when I was younger.”

Anakin made a face. “Old people music. You really think that’s what people are going to go for?”

It was better than Republic propaganda. Jango didn’t have a chance to say anything. Obi-Wan angled his body slightly—aligning himself with Jango, turning to face Anakin. Obi-Wan said, “I assure you, Jango Fett was very popular for good reason. His music… it could have taken over the galaxy.”

Anakin still looked doubtful, but he subsided. “If you say so.”

Obi-Wan’s expression was exasperated fondness. Jango was surprised how well he could recognize the play of subtle expressions on his genial face. “Tell me about your boys,” he said, and Anakin lit up as he began to discuss the boys of the 501st.

Anakin calling them boys was being generous. The clones were Anakin’s age, really, and the way he talked about them made it clear that he treated them more as peers than as boys under his care. But the more Anakin talked, the more clear it was that every one of these clones were different. For all that they were singing the same songs, each group was performing them differently. The 501st, perhaps because of Anakin’s influence, was brash and bold compared to the 212th. Jango suspected if he heard about other groups, he would learn of even more subtle differences.

It was more and more clear. They all had Jango’s face, but they weren’t Jango. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

* * *

The 212th led with one of their Republic propaganda songs, one that they’d been performing for a while already about the glory of authority. The crowd cheered raucously as the curtain rose and the lights flashed, singing along to all the words.

Jango stood by Obi-Wan in the wings, Anakin on Obi-Wan’s other side. He made it through half of the setlist, before the familiar beat of his debut single threaded through the air, to a sudden breath from the audience.

The crowd practically roared back when the 212th began to perform, and Jango had to turn away.

Obi-Wan’s presence was warm and steady, but it wasn’t enough. Jango was 22 and learning that his tour was cancelled. Jango was 23 and screaming at Jaster. Jango was 24 and giving up on ever performing again. Jango was 25 and living with Arla, no marketable skills since he had given his entire life to singing and dancing and he couldn’t even stand to do it anymore, every time he tried to sing he felt sick and every time he tried to dance his limbs were like lead.

He was 44, and he felt the familiar burn of violence. His hand clamped on Obi-Wan’s wrist. Squeezed. Obi-Wan gasped, in surprise. He felt Obi-Wan turn, but he couldn’t look, couldn’t stand to see.

“Hey,” a voice growled, and it was Anakin. “What’s your problem?”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan hissed back. “Jango.” His voice was steady and calm. “Jango, do you need to step aside?”

The crowd was charged at the music. Those that knew of Jango Fett were flush with nostalgia, brought back to their childhoods. Those that didn’t know of Jango Fett were wide-eyed and passionate at the sound of the new sound. They shouted for more. They cheered and screamed. The crowd was electric.

That should have been for Jango.

He was clutching at Obi-Wan. It took effort to get his fingers to let go. The light played across the back of Obi-Wan’s head, as he turned away from the boys to worry at Jango.

“Jango.” Obi-Wan’s voice was so quiet, so calm. “Jango, do you need to step aside?”

He managed a short nod.

“Do you need me to go with you?”

He shook his head.

Anakin was staring, blatantly.

Obi-Wan said, “Will you come back?”

He didn’t know.

The night was cool, outside of the Arena. Jango could trace his steps back to the alleyways where he had gotten caught. He could go back, get into a fight. His reputation was ruined already anyway. He was never going to perform again. He would never stand on a stage and hear the crowd roar the way they did.

Seeing the 212th perform his song had hurt more than he had expected.

He stood outside the Arena until the crowd began to trickle out. At the first curious glance, he ducked his head and turned away. But he was old now, especially compared to the boys, and age had lined his face enough to make him difficult to recognize.

He waited until the crowd had left, and then he went back in. Security recognized him, let him walk through the front until he was standing before the stage.

This was the last place he had performed. He hadn’t known that when he’d performed. He hadn’t known his career would end. But it was here, in this same Arena.

Jango stood before the stage. He didn’t know if he had the strength to get onto it. He didn’t know if he could bear it, to stand on the stage here, in Galidraan.

* * *

Obi-Wan was waiting in his berth when he got back to the ship, rolling the marble that Jango had given him on Felucia in his palm.

“We don’t have to keep performing your songs.”

Jango’s throat tightened. “Don’t,” he said. 

Obi-Wan’s fingers closed on the marble. “You have a choice, Jango.”

“There’s never a choice.”

Obi-Wan’s voice was very careful, “I know you didn’t have a choice to retire, but you have a choice now.”

Here, on Galidraan, Obi-Wan’s careful words just made the fury flare. “Don’t,” he said, again.

“Alright.” Obi-Wan was always so careful. So considerate. He should have been chewed up and spat out by the industry already. He would be, if he kept in this direction.

Jango choked on the words. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

Asking for people’s opinions. Being kind and considerate. Not taking advantage of any chance he got to push forward. Yielding.

Obi-Wan seemed to hear all of the words Jango didn’t say. He said, very quietly, “I made a choice, a long time ago, that I would not compromise myself.”

“When you had your falling out with Dooku?”

“Yes.”

Jango took a sudden deep breath. He hadn’t realized how shallow his breaths had been.

“You keep doubting my commitment. But I won’t waver.” Obi-Wan smiled, sweet and flirtatious, entirely fake. 

This wasn’t right. This was… “How do you know that?”

There was a long pause. “I was on Mandalore. I was working with Satine. Master Dooku asked me to be somebody I wasn’t. He asked me to do things I wasn’t comfortable with. I said no. I will keep saying no.”

“What did he ask you to do?”

“Oh, the usual.” His voice was light. His grip on the marble was anything but. “Change my name. Play a role. Smile at the right people. Eat the right food. Say the right words.”

Jango felt a sudden chill of foreboding.

“It was meant to be my debut,” Obi-Wan said, in that same light tone. “We were filming the promotional videos. Satine was going to be in them. It would have been a very good debut, if it had happened.”

Jango said, “Your debut,” very quietly.

Obi-Wan smiled, the holoactor smile. But it wasn’t, was it. It was the pop idol smile, the one that stripped away the crinkles around his eye, because that wasn’t flattering in photographs, would smudge any eyeliner he had on. It was the pop idol smile that showed the exact right amount of teeth, was the right degree of flattering. Obi-Wan had a holoactor smile, had a pop idol smile because he’d been trained for that role.

“You were working with Satine as a pop idol.” Not as an aide or an assistant. Not in preparation to be the manager he was now.

“I never debuted,” Obi-Wan corrected. “Master Dooku told me what he had done, to pave my way to success, and I couldn’t condone it.”

Dooku. It came back to Dooku, in the end. Jango didn’t want to know. He didn’t have to know. He asked, “What did he do?”

Obi-Wan’s fingers opened. The marble shone, red and gold. He had gotten it because it reminded him of Obi-Wan. It shone like a star. “You know what he did,” he said, very steadily. “You were there.”

* * *

Galidraan was a beautiful planet, full of life, but Jango could not see it as that, ever. It was rust, wearing away at the iron of his soul, the iron of his heart. Galidraan was fire and fury, was ruin and damnation.

Galidraan was where it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: 8/27
> 
> * points to happy ending tag *


	8. Galidraan, Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango faces his past. Obi-Wan looks to the future. They meet somewhere in-between.

In his dreams, he could still hear Dooku’s voice. Cool and cultured. Each syllable perfectly enunciated.

I did it for you, Ben. I couldn’t let you debut in his shadow. You were only a child, so small, but so full of talent. You could take over the galaxy. I could see it. You deserved it, more than him.

I did it for you, Ben.

“My name is Obi-Wan,” he said.

Don’t you know what I’ve done for you, Ben? Don’t you dare turn your back on me! I am the one who can give you everything. Without me, you’re nothing. You will never succeed without me. This is what you want, Ben. You’ve always wanted this. Ever since you were a child, always with a song on the tip of your tongue, always moving as if to dance. You wanted this. You asked for this. All of this? All of this was for you.

“My name,” he said, “is Obi-Wan.”

* * *

Jango remembered.

Obi-Wan pressed his body close. His voice had been quiet as he murmured, “What will you do, when this is over?”

Jango, running a hand through Obi-Wan’s hair, had said, “Back to retirement,” with a snort. “You?”

“I have the boys to take care of.”

That had made Jango stop, fingers twisted in Obi-Wan’s hair. It was always so long, just brushing the edge of respectability. “You think they’ll still be performing?”

“I plan on asking them if they’d like to.”

“I expected them to retire.”

“Why? They love performing.”

The bitterness had risen up. He had loved performing too, but he had still retired.

Obi-Wan seemed to understand Jango, even when he didn’t say anything. Jango had thought it fortuitous before. Now, with the lens of Obi-Wan’s own past, it took on a different shade of clarity. “You didn’t have a choice,” Obi-Wan had said. “Dooku took that from you. Are you going to put these boys in the same position as you?”

Retirement hadn’t been the issue. It had been having retirement forced upon him, not being able to make his own decisions. One decision after another decision made for him, culminating in his forced retirement. 

“You were forced to retire, so you’ll make these boys with your face, your voice, knowing your craft. You’ll put them in the same position. The same face. The same history.”

Jango said, “It’s _my_ face.”

“It’s their face as well!” Obi-Wan’s voice rose, like a tide. He had a voice that could fill stadiums. The volume of it, the ferocity startled Jango. Then it ebbed, settled into something soft and cajoling. “You didn’t get to choose how your career went. Let them.”

When all of these was settled. When they found the perpetrator. When Jango could be assured his legacy was preserved. Safely locked back in history.

“Your legacy is not Galidraan,” Obi-Wan promised. “Your legacy is bigger than that.”

Jango remembered. Obi-Wan’s hair had been mused from Jango’s fingers, his face flushed for all they had been pressed together in a too-small berth. He had raised his voice and Jango had thought it strange.

Obi-Wan was always carefully put together. His hair was neatly cropped, long enough for the fringe to fall into his eyes, short enough to be respectable. He had hair the color of gold and fire under the stage lights, hair that would gleam. He had bright eyes and a holoactor’s smile. He was charming and friendly and when he talked, he made you seem like the center of the world. He was…

That had been a lie.

Jango stood in the center of the dance studio, where he’d escaped to after Obi-Wan’s words. He stood and remembered. You know what he did, Obi-Wan had said. You were there. You were there. You were there.

Jango had been there, when Dooku had paved the way for Obi-Wan’s ascent.

Obi-Wan knew how to dance, because he had been trained for it. He knew how to sing, because he’d spent hours practicing. He smiled and laughed and charmed people because he had been taught to do so, had been taught to layer charm over his emotions, taught to seduce the interviewers. Taught to speak only the truth he wanted to share.

Obi-Wan was a lie.

He’d looked at him and thought that he would shine under the lights. So had Dooku. Enough that when Obi-Wan was just a child, Dooku had sought to pave his way.

Jango bowed his head. In the mirrors, his reflection did the same. He looked up at himself, at the body that had gotten old, that had lost its edge. He’d stopped dancing, stopped watching what he ate. He’d given up.

Dooku had won.

No. Obi-Wan had snatched Dooku’s victory from his grasp and crumbled it. He’d stepped aside instead of rising to the top. Had looked at the path cleared for him and stepped off of it.

No wonder Dooku wanted Obi-Wan back at his side. He’d always had ambitions for him, and time hadn’t changed that. But Obi-Wan was 35 now, the age when pop idols had long begun to think about retirement. Dooku clearly hadn’t given up, if that first meeting meant anything. Perhaps he didn’t want Obi-Wan to puppet to the top, anymore. Perhaps he wanted Obi-Wan at his side, puppeteering idols in their dance.

Jango took a deep breath, pulled up from his spine, and faced himself in the mirror.

There was no Obi-Wan at the doorway, leaning against the frame with datapad in one hand and thermos in the other. There was no Obi-Wan in the center of the room, hands empty, eyes closed in offering. There was just Jango.

Just Jango Fett, ground to dust on Galiraan, ashes scattered to rest.

* * *

The next day, the crowd was even wilder.

There was a crowd gathering at the Arena while they went through soundcheck. The holonews was talking about the 212th, and their decision to bring back Jango Fett’s music. The air was charged.

Jango covered his face and went to the back alleys where he had gotten caught, years ago.

The warehouse where he’d fought had been torn down. There was a block of apartment buildings there instead. The city had changed, in the years that he hadn’t been there. Torn down and remade.

For a long time, Jango stood on the street and stared at where he had lost everything. This was where he had fought and drawn blood. This was where he had almost killed a man.

It happened, in underground fights. They were rabid things, with a crowd roaring for blood. Jango had been angry: at himself for not being able to calm down, at his opponent, who smirked and called him pretty boy, at the world, for taking so long to see him. He had been angry and the anger had burned and when it was time he had fought and he didn’t hold back.

He had drawn blood, and the crowd had roared.

It had been easy to go just one step further. He hadn’t noticed the flash of lights. Hadn’t noticed anything but the thrum of fury licking through him.

There was a touch on his elbow, as soft as the breeze, and Jango turned to find Obi-Wan beside him, staring at the same block of apartment buildings.

“What are you doing here?”

Obi-Wan hesitated, as if to make a glib statement, and then seemed to swallow it down. “Looking for you,” he said.

“What about the boys?” Did he leave them unsupervised? Let them wander around so they could get into fights—

“They’re resting. Cody is keeping an eye on them.”

Cody was responsible, mostly. Unless he was more like Jango; then he would find it too easy to sneak out onto the Galidraan streets… Jango didn’t pursue the thought.

“Why did you come here, Jango?”

“What do you care?”

Dooku had done it for Obi-Wan. Had ground Jango under his heel so Obi-Wan could thrive.

Obi-Wan said, “I never wanted you to stop dancing.”

The words echoed, familiar. Obi-Wan had said that, before. Before he told Jango about Dooku’s motivations, he had said that, hadn’t he? He’d stepped away from Dooku when he learned…

Obi-Wan continued, in his steady voice. He hadn’t brought his datapad with him, or his thermos. Just his self, his hands folded before him. “This is where it happened, isn’t it? Right here.”

“I almost killed a man.”

Obi-Wan glanced at him.

“It was a fight. I attacked him with my bare hands until he almost died.”

“I know.”

Jango snorted. “I suppose you do.”

“He told me everything. He couldn’t have me in anybody’s shadow, if he wanted me to succeed,” Obi-Wan didn’t turn away from the building. Jango wondered if Obi-Wan saw the past the way he did. Probably not. Obi-Wan had been a boy, when all of this had happened. “He couldn’t let you take over the galaxy. So he stopped you. Whatever it took.”

“His reasoning?”

“Show business is ruthless.” It had all the gravity of a quotation. “You must be ruthless to thrive.”

“Dooku’s words.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you come here, Obi-Wan?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Why? Going to finish what Dooku did?”

“No.” There was no panic, just steady resolve. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

Galidraan was where it all started. His first chance to go beyond the Outer Rim. His career, burning to ashes. Dooku had meant to build something where Jango had stood, and Obi-Wan had turned away rather than let himself be used.

“Is this why you let them pick their names?”

Obi-Wan took in a sharp breath.

“Why you let them eat what they want, as long as they’re healthy?”

He didn’t reply.

“Let them cut their hair the way they do? Get the tattoos they did? Would you let them sing what they want, if they asked?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a fool.” Jaster had never given him that much freedom. When he’d gotten it, that little snatch of it, he had beaten a man to near death, burned his career to ashes. “You’ll never succeed, like that.”

“Then I won’t succeed.”

There was a new building where the warehouse had stood. It was shiny and new. He wondered if the people living there had any idea that Jango had almost killed a man underneath them.

“Why are you here, Obi-Wan?”

His voice was a breath drawing across Jango’s skin. “For you. It was always for you.”

* * *

“I loved your music, as a child.”

Jango didn’t say anything in return. They had found an out-of-the-way tea shop. Obi-Wan had ordered tea for both of them, found them a booth in a secluded corner.

“I loved it. I wanted to be like you. I was so young.”

“Nine.”

“Younger.” Wide-eyed and sweet, a child. Dooku had seen him, heard his dreams, smiled and thought that he could work with this. “Master Dooku convinced Qui-Gon—my foster father—to enroll me in singing and dancing classes. He found the best ones for me. Made sure I attended them even when I was sick or tired. I did, of course. I wanted to be a star.”

“And then Galidraan happened.”

“I didn’t know the details, then. I was only a child, and the rumors that Master Dooku spread weren’t fit for young ears.” Obi-Wan’s voice was calm and steady. Dooku had said that Jango was little more than a rabid dog. Dooku had said many things. “I just knew that you retired. I was devastated, of course. My favorite performer, retired. Master Dooku had to drag me to lessons. He was very disappointed, and I did try not to disappoint him.”

“Then when did you find out?”

“When I was fourteen, Master Dooku began discussing my debut. He changed my diet, got my hair cut the way he thought best, picked my clothes for me, sent me to Mandalore to meet with Satine. She was right at the cusp of massive popularity. The perfect sort of partner to propel me to fame. She’d film the promotional video with me, we’d get caught by a few tabloids, and everybody would know my name. The name he chose.”

Jango didn’t touch his tea. 

Obi-Wan didn’t drink either. “He named me Ben.”

“Ben.”

“Shorter. Not as… exotic.” Obi-Wan didn’t smile. “But Satine was my friend. I asked her to call me Obi-Wan. And people found out, and Master Dooku was very disappointed.”

Furious, Jango suspected.

“He had spent so much time on me. He hired the best teachers, molded me into a very specific image. And now it was warped. They knew that my name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. And I was rather insistent that I should be called that. He disagreed. He called me ungrateful. He said I would never understand what he had done for me.”

Furious, Jango thought. Dooku had been furious.

“And he told me about Galidraan. He’d been keeping an eye on the market, keeping it thin, so that I could succeed. Bribing holochannels to keep them from playing artists that were about to make it big. Spreading rumors. He was very thorough. He did it for me.”

Obi-Wan smiled into his tea, then. It wasn’t a nice smile.

“I loved your music. I still do. As a child, I dreamed of being able to watch you dance. I wanted to succeed, but not if that meant that everybody I loved and admired couldn’t. So I said no.”

“Your falling out.”

“Master Dooku was very upset.” He lifted the cup, took a delicate sip, set it down. “I loved your music, Jango. I was only a child, but I knew what I loved.”

Obi-Wan reached into his pocket, drew out the marble that Jango had given him. It caught the light and sparkled, like a star. Obi-Wan could have been a star. Should have been a star.

“I loved your music, as a child. I was a teen when I chose your music over mine. And I came to find you, Jango.”

Jango’s throat was tight. Obi-Wan could have been taken over the galaxy, and he had turned it down.

He set the marble down on the table. It rolled to Jango. Jango picked it up, cupped it in his palm. In the shadow of his hand, it was nothing but glass, easily shattered.

Obi-Wan asked, “Will you come back?”

He curled his fingers around the marble. He set it on the table, let it roll back to Obi-Wan’s hand. “Give me a day.”

Obi-Wan’s smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and he was as radiant as the sun.

* * *

On the third day that they were at Galidraan, Jango sat in the nosebleed seats and watched the boys perform.

It was hard to buy a ticket. The boys were popular, and singing Jango’s songs only made them more popular. He’d had to get it from a scalper, paying absolutely ridiculous prices, and all for a seat in the nosebleeds, surrounded by cheering teenagers. He could have gotten a better seat by calling up Obi-Wan, or even waving the badge he had indicating him as staff, but something stopped him.

He needed to be in the audience.

The boys were good. As good as he was. Maybe even better, if he put aside all of the fury that had never dissipated after Galidraan. They took to song and dance like they’d been born to it. They laughed and joked on stage, picking up threads of conversation as if they were one mind. The crowd laughed and sang along and screamed.

Somebody had made these boys. Somebody had taken him from the ashes of Galidraan and built something new. Something different.

Under the bright lights, the boys shone like stars in the sky, a constellation illuminating the night.

* * *

Galidraan was where it all converged.

Where his legacy ended.

Where his legacy would begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: 8/31


	9. Hyperspace III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jango and Obi-Wan face the last hurdle to securing Jango’s legacy: finding the person who commissioned the clones in the first place.

The first thing Jango saw when he boarded to ship to leave Galidraan was Obi-Wan’s smile, eyes crinkled on the edges. They didn’t say anything—Obi-Wan was preoccupied with making sure everybody was settled as they headed to their next stop, and Jango went to settle into his berth and scold the boys for their sloppy performances, more for the sake of finding something to do than any need to correct them. Longshot rolled his eyes at his back more than once, and Jango let it slide. It wasn’t until later, when everybody had settled down for the night, and Jango was in Obi-Wan’s small rooms the two of them sitting around cups of tea, that they talked.

“You chose,” Obi-Wan began.

“I did.”

For a while, they sat in pleasant silence, pressed next to each other with tea before them. They pressed themselves, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, in Obi-Wan’s narrow bunk. Jango let the warmth fill him. He chose. He chose this.

Obi-Wan’s voice was quiet when it cut through the silence. “Will you doubt it, later?”

“What do you mean?”

His voice held musing of a late night, quiet doubts coming out. “I wonder, sometimes. I didn’t let Dooku make me into what he wanted me to be. But here I am, doing it to these boys.” Taking them and making them into an image to idolize. Taking broad traits and painting a picture with them, instead of showcasing them as they were. 

Jaster had done the same to Jango, before he had been forced to retire. Dooku had done the same to Obi-Wan, before Obi-Wan had stopped him.

Jango picked up his tea, sipped it. It was hot and bitter. “What choice do you have?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded very quiet. “I don’t know if I have any other option. I don’t know if I have any choice but to keep going, now.”

Jaster had sat Jango down, before Jango went down this path. “It’s a hard life, show business.” Jango had accepted it. His career had ended early, too early for him to be faced with the worst decisions, but he had accepted it.

It had been worth it, for the chance to perform. For the chance to shine.

He had chosen it.

And if the boys were anything like him…

“If not you, then they’ll be under somebody else’s care.” Somebody who’d treat them worse. Somebody who wouldn’t care. Somebody who would look at them and see something disposable instead of what they were.

Jango’s legacy.

“That’s hardly a choice,” Obi-Wan said. His hands were tight around his cup. His knuckles were white.

“It’s the choice you’re making.”

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan had made a choice, years ago, to never compromise himself. Jango had made a choice, yesterday, to build something great from the ashes of Galidraan. Jango would have to live with that choice, for the rest of his life. He thought he could, with Obi-Wan next to him.

“Let me tell you what I chose,” Jango said, and as he pressed Obi-Wan down onto the bunk, he told him about constellations in the sky, and the stories that they could tell from a few bright stars.

* * *

Obi-Wan planned on checking in with the other Jedi managing the clones after Galidraan. Dooku called before he could.

“Master Dooku,” Obi-Wan said, pleasantly.

“Master Kenobi,” he replied, just as sharply, “I seem to have heard some intriguing news.”

“One does, living with their finger on the pulse on the world as you do.”

“Let’s not dance around the subject.” Dooku drew himself up, tall. “Your clones sang Jango Fett’s songs.”

“Yes.”

“What was wrong with the songs they already had?”

Obi-Wan said, very politely, “They weren’t good enough.”

“And you were the judge of that?”

“I think the reviews from the Galidraan performances are the judge of that.”

Dooku frowned at him. His eyes flickered to Jango, lingering in the background of the call. “Mr. Fett,” he said, “I see you are still hanging around.”

Obi-Wan stepped forward. “Jango has been very helpful, Master Dooku. He’s been accompanying us and providing guidance for the boys. We wouldn’t have achieved the success we had without him.”

“Jango, is it?”

Obi-Wan and Dooku eyed each other for a moment, before Dooku yielded with a casual tilt of the head. “I have looked into your issue for you.”

“Thank you, Master Dooku.” Obi-Wan’s said, mildly. “Would you care to share what you learned?”

Dooku leaned back, tall and proud. “You would have been great,” he said, firmly.

“You have made me great,” Obi-Wan agreed, still in that same mild voice. “I learned much from your tutelage. My success is your success.”

It softened something, in the man. Jango was surprised to see it. He nodded an acknowledgement. “Have you looked into government funding, Master Kenobi? I find they have sources that private investors can only hope to achieve.”

Obi-Wan bowed. “I have not, Master Dooku.”

“Consider your next direction closely.”

Obi-Wan’s smile was small and careful, but there was the faintest glimmer in his eye. “Thank you for your guidance.”

Dooku nodded, and hung up.

“What was that about?” Jango asked. He’d expected Dooku to hold onto whatever information he had for longer, until he had gotten Obi-Wan to agree to some plan to debut. Until he’d wrung everything out of Obi-Wan for his own benefit.

Obi-Wan turned to him, smiling. “That was Master Dooku helping us.”

“Why?”

“He wanted me to be great,” Obi-Wan said, stepping close to tangle their fingers together. “I suppose he’s accepted that this is how I’ll achieve greatness.”

* * *

Obi-Wan spent the day making calls to other Jedi, asking them to look into government sources of funding. He called Satine and asked her for her connections.

Jango went to the dance studio to teach the boys another song.

They were good. They always had been good. But they could be better, and Jango would push them until they reached that point. Waxer and Boil were already a pair, easily playing off of each other, easily mirroring each other in choreography, and Jango put that to good use. Longshot could thrive with a bit more independence, so he assigned him a dance break and told him to put together some choreography so they could refine it. Wooley was charming, and he worked with him to play up the charm.

Cody eyed him suspiciously the whole time.

“Did Obi-Wan put you up to this?”

Jango eyed him right back. “If you’re going to be performing my songs with that face, then you’d better do it right,” he replied.

Cody raised a brow in an eerie mirror image of his youth. “Last time I checked, this was your face.”

Jango snorted. “Maybe twenty years ago. Now I want to hear you hit that high note with some emotion in your face. You aren’t performing in a studio, your audience can see you.”

* * *

Obi-Wan said, “Master Dooku was right.”

Jango rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want to hear those words, ever.”

“Hush.” There was a smile in the corner of his mouth, before he sobered. “Master Dooku has sent me what he’s found out, and we have people looking corroborating his findings, as well as somebody on Kamino seeing if we can get any information out of them now that we have more direction to push. But Master Dooku was right to look at the money. Making the clones was expensive. And there were some very large government contracts awarded to the arts recently.”

“So this was a government scheme?”

“What was it that you called their music? Propaganda. It turns out that those songs were written specifically for the boys to sing. They didn’t get the song out of nowhere. Somebody delivered the music to them specifically.”

Jango was putting together the pieces just as quickly. “They’re going to be upset that the boys sang my songs.” Upset that they sang anything other than the banthashit they’d provided. Jango knew how effective soft diplomacy could be. Media could change worlds, through a song and dance. Somebody had given them Republic propaganda in hopes they would sing it for a purpose.

Obi-Wan looked at him, eyes very blue. “They’re going to be very upset. And the 212th was the first to perform them.”

“Do you think we’re in danger?”

“I think it isn’t a coincidence that Master Dooku has just sent me the contact information of a reputable security company for our next tour stop.”

Jango sighed.

“He also said to send him the invoice for the security company,” Obi-Wan added, as if that made the situation better.

“There are thousands of clones,” Jango pointed out. “Are they going to shoot all of them?” Was Dooku going to pay for security for all of them?

“We don’t know what the plan is,” Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. “They made thousands of clones. They must have contingencies. They couldn’t have just thought they could make thousands of clones to sing songs about the greatness of the Republic and nothing else.”

Obi-Wan slid the marble out of his pocket and rolled it in his palm, thinking. The glass caught the lights. It shone, as bright as a star. Jango eyed it.

Stars, he thought, morbidly, die out.

“Who could it be? Somebody who loves the Republic? But _why_? What was their purpose?” Obi-Wan’s voice rolled with his thoughts. The marble twinkled in the light.

“What exactly do the songs say?”

Obi-Wan blinked.

Jango had called them Republic propaganda when they first came out. They were all about listening to authority, doing what you were told, being obedient. But was that really what was good for the Republic?

Obi-Wan pulled out his datapad. He tapped it, brow furrowed.

“What if it wasn’t about the Republic?” Jango asked. “What if it was about something else?”

“Cleaning house,” Obi-Wan breathed. “Obeying authority. Do as you’re told. But not the Republic.”

“Obi-Wan?”

He looked up, eyes wide. “I need to talk to Mace.”

* * *

The songs, Obi-Wan said. The songs mean something. The songs are saying something.

“What are they saying?” Mace asked.

“I think they’re about a coup.” Obi-Wan said. “I think they’re trying to prime the galaxy to accept a coup.”

Mace said, very seriously, “That’s a serious accusation.”

“Jango called them Republic propaganda.” Obi-Wan touched him on the elbow. “But they aren’t about the Republic. They aren’t about diplomacy, or having a voice. They’re about listening to what you’re told. They’re about obeying an authority. They’re about an authoritarian government cleaning the galaxy.”

Jango blinked. He remembered—no, he thought back to everything he’d heard. He’d assumed it was Republic propaganda. But Obi-Wan was right. It was about doing what you were told. The songs had called for docile obedience. He had assumed it was docile obedience to the Republic.

“It might not be a violent coup,” Obi-Wan said. “It could be happening right now. Making people comfortable with certain offices holding more power than they should have. Eroding people’s sense of what’s acceptable and what’s not.”

Mace’s eyes narrowed. “You have ideas.”

“Mace,” Obi-Wan said, “I follow the news cycles. There’s been news of governmental overreach. There’s been suggestions that the Republic should have more authority, that it should create a military. There’s been word that the military should be under a high authority, an authority that this music has been encouraging people to _accept_. I need to know. Who has been gathering power in the Galactic Senate? He needs to be investigated.”

Mace nodded, sharply. “I believe you.” He took a deep breath. “As loathe as I am to suggest it, you should contact Master Dooku,” he instructed. “We’ll need his resources for this.”

“And I’ll contact Satine as well,” Obi-Wan agreed. “She’ll help.”

* * *

With that out of their hands, Jango threw himself into getting as many of his old songs into the boys’ head. He wasn’t going to have them sing that propaganda any more than he had to. He drilled them on lyrics, he drilled them on choreography. He worked them until they were sweating and exhausted, and then he got them up and make them practice again.

All of the boys were cursing his name two days in. Obi-Wan didn’t stop Jango, given that he was busy in meetings with the Jedi and Dooku and Satine. 

Still, the boys learned, as quickly as Jango always had. Quicker, even. The many drills he’d run them through earlier had paid off, and picked up the choreography, memorized it easily. They were used to getting worked to the bone for no reason, and now Jango had a reason to push them.

They had a performance coming up, after all.

By the time they approached Mon Cala, the Jedi had mobilized. Dooku had apparently thrown his resources behind Obi-Wan’s investigation. Jango stepped off the ship to the news cycles discussing recently elected Chancellor Palpatine’s arrest for illegal cloning. Satine had, apparently, used her connections with the media to air Palpatine’s crimes across the holochannels.

“That’s all we could get him on so far,” Mace said. “We’ll see how things pan out.”

“He won’t say anything,” Obi-Wan said.

“No,” Mace agreed. “But that’s never stopped our esteemed Master Dooku.”

Jango snorted. Mace met his eye, gave him a nod of acknowledgement. 

Obi-Wan said, “It’s very kind that Master Dooku has agreed to help us.”

Mace corrected, “He can’t have your pet project fail, not when it’s on the cusp of success.”

“He always wanted greatness for me,” he agreed, in that mild voice he used when talking about Dooku. But his smile at Jango was all wry amusement.

If Jango hadn’t seen their interaction earlier, he would suspect Dooku’s motivations. Dooku, who had burned Jango’s career and salted the earth where it had grown. But Dooku had, for all of his ruthlessness, been determined to see Obi-Wan succeed. And he had been willing to burn everybody else to have that happen.

Mace shook his head. “You have a performance, don’t you? On Mon Cala?”

Obi-Wan gave a little nod of acknowledgement.

“You think your boys know enough of Jango’s songs that they don’t have to sing what Palpatine wanted them to?”

Obi-Wan glanced at Jango.

He thought about the boys, their exhausted faces as they learned choreography for a dozen songs, and learned it well.

“I think that can be arranged,” he said.

* * *

The crowd roared for the boys. Jango, his arm slung around Obi-Wan’s waist, watched as they waved to their audience and took their bows, again and again.

“They shine,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“That’s the sweat,” Jango grunted. “Always did sweat under the stage lights too much.”

Obi-Wan laughed, quietly. “No,” he said, watching the boys with Jango’s face and Jango’s voice. They had sung Jango’s songs, and the crowd had sung along. They were no longer conscribed to obscurity. They were _remembered_. “They shine like stars.”

And Jango turned to study the man next to him, with his bright hair and bright eyes. The man who, with steady steps, guided them here.

“They do,” he said.

He could still see Obi-Wan, eyes closed, heart open as he danced. He could see Obi-Wan, who had stepped away from the stage to preserve Jango’s work. He could see Obi-Wan, without whom they would not have built this legacy they were watching now.

 _You do_ , Jango thought.

Obi-Wan turned to him, as if he’d heard Jango’s thoughts. He smiled. “They shine like you.”

“They shine like _you_ ,” Jango replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next and final chapter: 9/3
> 
> thanks for joining the ride! just one more chapter. :)


	10. Coruscant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decades after Galidraan, Jango reaches Coruscant. It isn’t the journey he planned, but it is his, and his future lies before him.

Obi-Wan said, for the fourth time, “It’s really not much.”

“Shut up,” Jango replied, also for the fourth time. “And don’t say—”

“We can find a larger place.” Obi-Wan was grinning though, bright and easy as he wrangled a box. “Is that what you didn’t want me to say?”

Jango snorted. “We don’t need a larger place,” he said, as he’d said before. “Not with the boys touring again soon. We won’t be here long enough for it to matter.”

The 212th had finished their first tour and were on break while Obi-Wan finalized the last of the legal loopholes to get the clones citizenship and out of the hellish contracts they’d been tied to. Dooku’s formidable resources had been turned on Palpatine, and whether or not all of the investigations had found the truth or Dooku’s carefully fabricated messages, Jango wasn’t sure. What mattered was that Palpatine had been found guilty of embezzlement and corruption and had been impeached and summarily locked up. They’d gotten Jango’s DNA back from Kamino, again with Dooku’s assistance and no small amount of Dooku’s scorn.

It was still bewildering to have Dooku’s ruthless nature on his side, but Obi-Wan just said, with cheerful mildness, “You get used to it. You just have to set clear boundaries.”

Jango would let Obi-Wan manage Dooku.

While Obi-Wan managed Dooku, Jango had spent most of his time with the boys. Not just the boys of the 212th, but with all of them, teaching them what he knew when they met up with the other groups. Jaster had, at Jango’s call, offered his own resources, and soon Jango’s own trainers were training the clones, drilling them on fundamentals, making sure they could perform as well, if not better, than Jango had in his prime. He’d continue working with all of them—at least the ones who wanted to continue performing—while they were on hiatus in Coruscant. 

Satine had offered to sign the boys with her agency, given that the Jedi were an NGO and weren’t prepared to manage hundreds of boybands full-time. The boys who didn’t want to keep performing were being offered job training, courtesy of Satine Kryze, who knew how to transition from a career in show business to something else. Obi-Wan’s influence, again. Satine insisted it was just good business practice, signing the boys. “You were the best, once,” she said. “It’s an investment.” But she had been smiling when she said it, and Obi-Wan had been pressed against Jango’s side, warm and steady.

Satine had also offered Jango a job, as a trainer, choreographer, and coach. He would keep working with the boys, making them the best they could be.

Eventually, the boys would divide themselves back up and take to touring the galaxy. Some of them would settle on planets and establish their own theatres. Satine was going to be very successful soon. But until then, Obi-Wan was on Coruscant dealing with legalities, the 212th was grounded there with him, and the other groups were passing through the planet to get their paperwork handled.

So Jango had packed up his things from Arla’s house in Concord Dawn and taken a ship to Coruscant. Obi-Wan had met him at the port and driven them back to his apartment, Jango’s two boxes worldly possessions that he couldn’t be parted with. The rest were in storage, and he’d get them sent over if he needed them.

Obi-Wan laughed, bright and easy, flinging open the door to his apartments. “Well, here it is.”

It was light and airy. Minimalistic. Small. The main living area had enough space for a low table and a couch. There was a small kitchen off to the side, a simple dining area. But it was still larger than Jango’s berth on the ship, larger than Obi-Wan’s room. It was big enough for the two of them.

“It’s fine,” Jango grunted. “From the way you were going on, I thought it’d be smaller than your room on the ship.”

“Oh, but you haven’t seen the bed yet.”

“Can’t be smaller than your bunk.”

Obi-Wan pressed a hand to Jango’s cheek. Leaned over to kiss him, sweet and slow. “It isn’t.”

“Is this an invitation?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“I think,” Jango said, dropping the box that he held, “That you should choose if you want me in your bed or on that couch over there.”

Obi-Wan laughed, bright and loud, the corners of his eyes crinkled in delight, as he took Jango by the hand and pulled him into the bedroom.

* * *

The marble that Jango had given Obi-Wan gleamed in the Coruscant lights. Jango held it up, turned it over and over so the glass could shimmer.

There was music playing over the holo. It was a familiar song. Jango knew all the words by heart. Still, there were layers to the music that hadn’t existed when Jango first heard it.

“Your debut single,” Obi-Wan said from where he was lying beside Jango. He reached up, touched the marble with a finger. “The boys chose it for their own recording debut. They released it yesterday.”

“It’s the 212th, then.”

“Can’t you tell?”

He could. He could recognize their voices, for all that they all had his voice. For all that they had his face. There were just enough minute differences—the soft way that Wooley always crooned his lines, the precise enunciation that he couldn’t get out of Cody, the way Boil and Waxer harmonized together, Longshot, reliable in all of his lines despite all of the choreography work Jango piled on him.

“They all sound like me,” he grumbled.

Obi-Wan laughed. He knew a lie when he heard it.

The song continued, on and on. Jango cupped the marble in his hand, let the glass cool his palm.

“Dance with me,” he said.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were blue. His hair gleamed like the marble. He shone, like a star in the sky.

For a long time, Jango thought he would refuse. Would keep his past locked tightly away, never taking it out in fear that the memory would burn. But then Obi-Wan leaned in, smile lingering in his eyes. 

“Alright,” he said, and he let Jango pull him to his feet and swing them in dance together. Not the choreographed dances of their youth, but a different dance, one of easy abandon. Of two bodies moving in unison. 

Obi-Wan tucked his head into the crook of Jango’s neck. Jango pressed himself back. He was burning, the warmth bright and hot. Not like the fury of his youth, or the angry fire of Galidraan, but something softer. Warmer. 

The warmth of the sun on his skin. The warmth of a fire on a cold evening. The warmth of a body against his, holding him as they walked forward together.

There was a voice, all Coruscanti accent, the syllables smoothed by the song growing on the tip of his tongue. Obi-Wan’s voice, low and soft, singing familiar words that Jango knew by heart. Obi-Wan, his breath soft against Jango’s ear, his body moving in effortless unison.

Jango, lips against Obi-Wan’s ear, pressed the words back.

Jango’s voice was soft in the background—the boys, singing Jango’s song. The galaxy would know his music. Everybody would know him. Everybody would know them. But here, in this room in Coruscant, it was just the two of them, hand in hand, arm in arm, sharing in words that they had known for decades.

Star to star, they promised each other. Take my hand and from star to star, we will fill the galaxy with song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we are done!!
> 
> thank you to everybody who joined along for this ride, i am always delighted to write boyband AUs, and i am so glad that you all enjoyed! i understand that boyband AUs are a niche genre to begin with, and folks in SW fandom aren't necessarily here for pop idol dramatics, but i am glad you all gave it a chance and read until the end.
> 
> i have a little bit of [extra content](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1704683) for folks who want more pop idol jango. additionally, i have a [very long post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1704680) over on my mostly ignored pillowfort for people who want to get an inside glance at exactly how my brain constructed this boyband au, so feel free to check both out!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for all of the lovely kudos and comments! i'm so glad that you all are enjoying this boyband au! i apologize always for delays in replying to your comments; i am, unfortunately, an anxious introvert and sometimes it is easier for me to just write another fic to show my appreciation instead of socializing, but please know that i appreciate every comment very dearly. i hope you all continue to enjoy, and please stay safe during these difficult times.
> 
> -follow me on twitter [@virdant](https://twitter.com/virdant)  
> -[like and/or retweet the post](https://twitter.com/virdant/status/1290407881796272128)  
> -leave a kudo or comment


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